Her voice was charming, but Mackerel felt the deeper meaning behind the words.

‘I’m flattered, dear,’ said Ivy with a smile.

The detective wasn’t fooled. She turned to Shelby. ‘You’re Davey’s wife?’

Shelby nodded, eyes on the door. ‘How’s he doing?’

‘As comfortable as we can make him.’ De Corrado turned her gaze on Mackerel. ‘You’re the one out on bail?’

He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Has Forest said anything else?’ said Ivy.

‘Not yet,’ said the detective. ‘Why don’t you come in?’

Ivy held Shelby’s arm and stepped into the private room.

Mackerel trailed behind.

A uniformed police officer stood by the window. He watched the three of them intently. In the other corner of the room was a German shepherd, curled up on a mat.

And in the hospital bed was a thirteen-year-old version of the Forest he’d known as a kid.

His sandy hair was long and rangy, startling blue eyes looming out from under that shaggy fringe, gauze covering a wound on his forehead. He was dressed in a hospital gown, huddled against the bedhead, an IV drip in his hand, his thin arms around his knees, fingers wrapped in bandages.

Here he was.

Mackerel’s nephew.

The boy who’d been ripped away from them. Who’d missed out on seven years of family Christmases, birthday parties, fishing trips. Each one a hollowing out. Seven years of the same question. What happened to Forest, Jesse and Alexandra?

Shelby froze when she saw him and gave a soft gasp.

Anger boiled in Mackerel’s stomach. Forest looked malnourished, weak, neglected. Whoever had tattooed those words on his back was going to pay. They were going to regret they’d ever messed with a Dempsey.

Ivy rushed towards Forest, arms outstretched, and drew the boy into in her arms. They held each other for a moment, before Ivy pulled back.

‘Hello, dear,’ she said, sounding shaken. ‘I’m your grandmother.’

‘Hello,’ Forest whispered, voice raspy. His eyes took in Shelby, then flicked to Mackerel.

‘I’m Mackerel . . .’ He drew closer. ‘I’m your uncle.’

‘I know.’ Forest’s words were followed by a wince as he put a hand to his throat. He swallowed painfully. ‘I remember.’

Mackerel’s fingers itched. He was longing to do something, anything, to take away the boy’s pain.

‘I’m Shelby. I’m married to Davey, your other uncle. We’re . . . we’re your family.’

‘I remember you all.’ Forest nodded politely. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’

Ivy brushed the fringe out of his eyes. ‘Forest . . . what do you remember?’

‘Glimpses.’ Those unnerving eyes turned back to Mackerel. ‘I remember Uncle Mack, and Uncle Davey, and you.’ He smiled timidly at Ivy. ‘When I turned six, you gave me a backpack shaped like a jetpack. I wanted to be an astronaut, and you told me I was born to be an astronaut.’