‘There’s more to do here,’ I said, when I’d caught my breath again.
‘There’s always more to do. I’m going with or without you. Your psyche might be made of cast iron, but mine isn’t – that bullet could have killed either one of us. I need a chance to regroup.’
In the end I didn’t have any choice. I’d used the words ‘flesh wound’ when describing the incident to our editor, Kisani Hughes, but when Brad called her later that day, he gave a different assessment and she recalled us to Sydney. I grumbled, but by the time our plane touched down, I had a fever and signs of infection. Begrudgingly, I agreed that she’d made the right call.
I did not, however, agree with the medical leave the staff doctor then insisted I take. Several weeks of enforced time off was my idea of a nightmare. Within a few days I was bored out of my skull. I couldn’t exercise or walk my dog, or ride my motorbike. I couldn’t even run karate classes as I normally would when in Sydney between assignments. I did a lot of reading and an awful lot of thinking, but whether I was trying to focus on a novel, or awkwardly making breakfast with my one useful arm, my mind constantly circled back to Molly Torrington.
I’d always felt for her but I knew that any conversation about her brother’s death was going to be painful for both of us. I could never give her the closure she was seeking anyway; there had never been any easy answers when it came to Declan Torrington.
I’d never really known her well. For years I’d floated on the periphery of their family life, but as an unwelcome guest at the best of times. The last time I’d seen her in person had been at her brother’s funeral, when she stared down at the gravesite almost unblinkingly – a shocked expression on her face throughout the entire proceedings. Every other time I’d ever seen Molly, she’d been laughing or smiling – the kind of joyous and privileged child who approached every situation with a broad, generous beam. Declan used to joke that her riotous laugh always arrived at a room before she did – announcing her arrival like a town crier might have announced royalty.
His funeral was the first time I’d seen her look sad and the depth of misery in her eyes that day made me wonder if the sheer size and shape of this sudden grief would change her; maybe she would never wear that same brilliantly easy smile again? In this unexpected email all these years later the lingering grief in her words suggested that I’d been right.
I’d seen her in the press at times – including the cover of a finance magazine only a year or two earlier when she was promoted to VP of something or other at Torrington Media. I remember spotting the magazine in a newsagent at Dubai airport and doing a double take – surely she was too young to be working for her father? I’d calculated the years and realised with some shock that she was in her late twenties. To me it seemed unfathomable that cheerful Molly Torrington would one day lead a global media empire, but in the article she was already touted as the logical successor to her father.
Molly was doing what Declan could not: forging a path from childhood to adulthood in the immense shadow of Laith Torrington’s expectations and legacy. But judging by that studio-shot cover photo, the carefree kid I’d once known had altogether gone. She had cut off the caramel hair that she’d worn to her waist in her younger years and what was left was now a stark blonde. In the photo she was smiling, but the smile stopped dead at her lips. Her blue eyes were hard and her gaze was sharp as she met the camera, almost issuing a challenge – you want to mess with me? If I hadn’t seen her new look evolve via the media, I’d never have recognised her – she had morphed from a fun-loving kid to a very grown-up corporate shark.
I wondered how much of that transformation was the result of the loss of her brother. Then I wondered what Declan would make of it all and what he would have me do. I’d never been a fan of leaving skeletons to rest – it went against my nature and even my training – but I’d also made a point of not applying that philosophy to personal matters. Deeply held moments should definitely be left to fade into history. Still, I accepted that I couldn’t make that decision for Molly and I recovered her email from the trash folder. As I dialled her mobile phone, I ignored the sensation of dread in my gut. It wasn’t going to be a comfortable call, but I was fairly sure I was doing the right thing.
‘Molly Torrington.’ Her greeting was abrupt.
‘Hi – Molly – it’s Leo.’ When she didn’t respond, I clarified carefully, ‘Leo Stephens.’
‘I know, sorry… I just… I didn’t think you were going to call,’ she said. I glanced at the email and realised it had been over month since she’d sent it.
‘Sorry it’s taken so long,’ I said. ‘I was on an assignment and then I was injured.’
‘Are you okay?’