Except for small mementos, everything was gone—the furniture, the artwork that had hung on the wall, even the power tools and the lawn mower. What little she’d kept was packed into boxes that filled the aging Saab she’d bought to replace the BMW. Her woodworking tools, of course; they took up most of the trunk. A few pans, dishes, utensils, the toaster and blender, blankets and two sets of sheets, a couple of photo albums, her clothes and little else. Even Dean’s clothes she’d donated to the Volunteers of America. She’d once asked Quinn if he wanted any of them, and he’d shuddered. They weren’t really the same size, anyway. Dean had been a couple of inches taller, rangier, while Quinn was more...solid. Dean’s shirts would be too long in the sleeves for Quinn, too small around the neck. Besides, Dean loved bright colors. He almost always wore red or school-bus yellow or purple or even pink. Gaudy Hawaiian shirts were his favorite. He’d had Hawaiian-print shorts, too, and sometimes wore clashing prints on top and bottom.
