Detained

Brian pointed his steak knife at her. “Are you saying he’s wrong?”

She put down her knife and fork, no longer able to kid herself she could eat. “Are you saying you believe him over me?”

“Mark Mason doesn’t let good talent go unless they fuck up.”

“This is better than Match of the Day,” said Andy.

“They let me go because Parker is suing. I’m supposed to take one for the team.”

“Who’s the suit against?” said Brian, carving off a chunk of his almost rare steak.

“Everyone,” she said, knowing they’d understand the chain of responsibility.

“They cut you loose. But Parker can still come after you.”

“But I was only acting for the paper,” she said, confused. It’d never occurred to her Parker could still come after her. The idea was a shock. He’d be after more than the redundancy payment, more than what was in her savings account. And no employer would want to touch her with that hanging over her. She brushed a hand over her eyes. She could still feel the spider web.

Brian grunted. “Would be unusual, but not without precedent. You really did a number on him. He’s the laughing stock of the business community. No amount he spends on PR is going to help him now. Get us another beer, will you?”

Behavioural conditioning had her standing before her brain kicked into gear. She sat again. “Andy has legs.”

“I said be nice.”

“I’m right here,” said Andy. “And now I’m going in there,” he pointed through the open doors to the kitchen, “to get beers.”

“What did you do, Darce?”

“My job. What’s wrong with Andy?”

Brian sighed. He used a piece of bread to mop up the left over marinade on his plate. “A touch of post-traumatic stress syndrome, but he’s all right. He still has a job, but he’s not going back to the desert.”

Darcy stood, sympathy for Andy warring with her desire to be alone. “Thanks for dinner. I’ve had a crap day. I’m going home.” Brian didn’t try to stop her.

In the kitchen Andy said, “You and Parker. What do you know?”

“You saw the photos. That’s what I know.”

“I’m taking a crew to Shanghai. I’m going to interview him.”

Darcy gasped. “You’ve got it organised?” Nothing new on Parker had run for days; the story was going cold, even if Will’s infamy was still red-hot.

Andy grimaced. “No, on spec. But why not me? Why not the country’s most respected national broadcaster? He needs the interview, and I can convince him to go with us.”

There was so much a younger sister could’ve told an older brother about how to get his interview, how to unsettle his subject to get the best responses. So much she could’ve said about Will’s wit, intelligence and presence, about his incredible journey and his intense ambition. And it would be safe to tell family. Surely no one could sue her for confiding in her family. Except her family couldn’t be trusted to have her back.

She picked up the bottle of red from the counter and shoved it into her bag. She was going to need it more than Brian and Andy. “Good luck.”

Later at home, after the wine, after scrubbing her face till it felt raw, after the longest, hottest shower she could stand, Darcy lay in bed chasing oblivion. But it wouldn’t come. She flicked the radio on. The ABC news, something to distract her from the swirl of thoughts and fears in her head. The announcer droned on reading the Sydney, then national news. She’d missed the top of the broadcast, but when he repeated the lead story she leapt out of bed and went to her knees, dragging out the wheelie bag she’d only recently stowed here and tossing it on the bed.

She filled it with underwear and jeans, t-shirts and walking shoes, her one good suit and heels. She went to the bathroom and raided her toiletries. She cleaned out her wallet and turned on her laptop, logging on to Webjet.

Will Parker had been missing for five days. Along with his driver, he was presumed kidnapped. She was going back to Shanghai.

22. Unfinished Business

“Respect yourself and others will respect you.” — Confucius

Will was flat on his back, cuffed to the bed at ankle and wrist. He’d long since gotten used to the nasal quality of his voice, to the inability to breathe through his nose. He belted out the chorus to Green Day’s Know Your Enemy for about the sixth time that evening. He didn’t remember all the words but