“That was his armchair,” I said, walking toward the kitchen to look at the bare counters.

Mark came down the stairs carrying a blue nylon duffel bag stuffed with shoes and folded work suits.

He stopped on the bottom step and looked around the empty foyer at the pale squares on the wall where our framed prints used to hang.

On the built-in bookshelf beside the coat rack, a single outline in the dust showed where his corporate sales trophy had stood for three years.

“The painter left a half gallon of wall paint on the garage shelf,” Mark said, clearing his throat.