House of Cards. C.E. Murphy

The question sailed out of the kitchen almost before Margrit had the key in the lock, Cole’s baritone carrying concern.

      “Yeah. Sorry I’m late. I was at the office.” Margrit followed her housemate’s voice to the kitchen and sat down on the stool next to the telephone.

      Cole turned away from doing dishes, an eyebrow lifted dubiously, then both rising in surprise. “You really were. I figured you’d be running in the park.”

      “No.” Margrit looked at her hands. “Not tonight.”

      “Maybe you should. Not that I want to encourage you to do stupid things, but you sound like the dog died.” Cole picked up a dish towel, drying his hands, then folded his arms across his chest. “What’s wrong?”

      “I’m thinking about taking another job.” The idea formulated as she spoke.

      Disbelief shot Cole’s voice into a higher register. “You’re kidding. What, did a position open up in the D.A.’s office? I thought you and Legal Aid were bound in holy matrimony.”