should see a head-shrinker, a counsellor,” Grace continued to Kitty. “I’m not going to nag on about it, but I’ve spoken to people who’ve been through all kinds of violence and if you don’t see anyone now, it’ll come back. Post-traumatic stress disorder is very real; as real as this chocolate croissant. But I won’t say another word, I know you don’t want to talk about it.”
Seizing his opportunity, Sinatra attempted to launch an attack on the basket of chocolate croissants. “Sinatra!” Tallulah caught him by the scruff.
“One last thing, kid,” Grace said to Kitty. “Please, please, don’t feel responsible. When a person commits suici—”
“He didn’t!” shouted Kitty. “I don’t believe it. It doesn’t make sense.”
Trying to sound soothing but firm, Tallulah said, “But you have a suicide note. Didn’t that police detective give you a note from your father?”
Earlier Kitty hadn’t wanted to talk, but now it came out in a flood. “Yes, a poem, by one of my mother’s favourite poets, Léopold Sédar Senghor – ‘Et nous baignerons, mon amie … And we shall be bathed, my friend’. Why write that? There is something wrong. I know it! Why would he kill himself? We were so happy. Wouldn’t I know if my dad was unhappy?”
“Don’t blame yourself, kid,” said Grace. “It’s not your fault.”
“In fact, Kitty, I think you’re right.” Angel reached into her mother’s designer python-skin handbag. “Look at the date stamp.” Angel handed Kitty a postcard. “I received it this morning. Your dad must have posted it to me on the day he died.”
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