When dressed, Davey’s heavy legs walked him down the stairs and into the kitchen. He just sat in silence until he heard the sounds of her feet hitting the floor above him, the patter as she made her way to the bathroom, the door closing and opening, her feet on the stairs, that creak in the second-last step. He felt his back and neck stiffen. His chair was facing the kitchen door. The child walked in wearing pyjamas with red stars on them; her long brown hair, freshly brushed and loose, fell down her back. She looked so like her mother at her age except for the horn-rimmed glasses and eyepatch Rabbit had worn for so many years. She stared at her clean but dishevelled uncle, biting back emotion.

‘Oh,’ she whispered.

‘I’m so sorry, Bunny.’ He stood and she automatically stepped back.

‘OK,’ she said, and she crossed her arms, hugging herself. ‘It’s OK.’

He moved to hug her but she shrank back – she didn’t want to be touched. He got the message instantly.

‘I’m here,’ he said, and he meant it. She nodded. ‘I know.’

She sat at the table remaining silent and she didn’t cry. She picked at a boiled egg and after a few minutes she asked to be excused.

‘Of course, Bunny,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

She pushed her chair away from the table. ‘Don’t call me Bunny. Rabbit’s gone. I’m not her bunny anymore.’ Her voice was raspy and laced with pain.

He put his head in his hands, fighting a migraine. Juliet walked up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, went into her mother’s room, wrapped herself in her duvet and fell asleep hugging her pillow until late afternoon. And Davey? Well, he just sat on the chair in his dead sister’s kitchen wondering what the hell he was going to do.

‘You’re going to make mistakes and I don’t care about any of that as long as you make her feel loved,’ Rabbit said in his head.

‘I love you,’ Davey roared up the stairs.

Oh Rabbit, what the fuck have we done?

Chapter Two: Grace

Chapter Two

Grace

GRACE PUT HER KEY in the door and opened it to find her husband and four boys gathered on the stairs, just waiting for her. She’d phoned ahead from the car.

‘She’s dead,’ was all she could bring herself to say.

Lenny moved towards her and took her in his arms. ‘I’m so sorry, Gracie.’

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Sorry, Ma,’ said her eldest son, Stephen, eighteen-year-old, college-going and possibly failing.

Lenny stepped aside to allow Stephen to hug his mother.