‘Yeah, and being able to walk by the beach . . . and being around people that seem to want what’s best for me . . .’ He grew stern, pointing at the laptop. ‘You can’t tell anyone I don’t trust them. I think I trust Ivy. It’s just . . . it’s in my head.’

She nodded, made another affirming noise. ‘How about you just talk, and I’ll just listen.’

The session completed, Forest had asked Frankie to call Mackerel for a lift. He waited in silence, Frankie working away on her laptop. He was mentally drained, his temples soaked with sweat.

It was hard, pretending the whole time, when all he wanted was to talk through all of this with someone. Especially because of that thing she did where she leaned in and really listened. It gave off a really nice feeling . . . like she cared about him. But he couldn’t trust her.

It’s all a trick. Don’t drop your focus, even for an instant, or you’ll lose it all.

You can’t trust anyone.

When Mackerel finally pulled up outside, he saw that his face was pale. He wondered how he’d gone with Shelby.

What a shitstorm this is all turning into . . .

No, head in the game . . . Dodge all his questions. Ask him questions instead.

He left without saying goodbye to Frankie, relieved to be sliding into the front seat of Mackerel’s car.

‘I don’t like coming here, but Frankie’s really good at what she does. She just listens the whole time,’ he said unprompted.

‘You didn’t tell her about Davey?’ said Mackerel instantly.

‘No,’ said Forest. ‘Hey, listen, can we go do something else? I don’t want to go back to Safe Harbour just yet.’

‘Okay,’ said Mackerel. ‘There’s a retro van near the lookout – you can smell the coffee before you see the van, it’s that good. We can sit in the car and watch the view.’

‘You really like coffee, don’t you?’ said Forest.

Mackerel was silent for a moment, before he said, ‘When I was a kid I always saw normal people drinking coffee. I thought that’s what it meant to be a proper part of society.’

He drove up the hill, the tyres crunching over gumnuts as they slowed down for the lookout. The coffee van was situated in the perfect spot, with little tables set out, and tourists and locals alike spilling out everywhere, enjoying the afternoon sun.

Once they had ordered and returned to the car – Mackerel obviously wanted to talk where they wouldn’t be overheard – Forest went on the offensive, asking questions before Mackerel could. ‘What was prison like?’

Mackerel raised his eyebrows, wrinkles forming across his forehead. ‘No one has ever really asked me that before,’ he said. ‘It’s . . . boring. But stressful. And full of politics. And loud – clanging doors, shouting . . . cellmates that snore . . .’