Page 142 of Forever, Maybe
Never. Never.Never.
Liza wheeled herself out from behind the counter, dressed for battle. False lashes—Stephanie’s signature look—framing her eyes, glossy red lipstick in place. Nell once told him that red lipstick was a confidence booster. Maybe Liza had chosen it today as a silentfuck youto anyone making snide remarks about the shop’s past and her stepfather.
“Gaffer. Come tae talk tae me about that article?”
The broad grin, the devil-may-care tone—it was all for show. Beneath it, fear simmered.
Daniel had never thought of himself as a particularly equalities-minded employer, but over the years,Stuffed!had adapted. The Hyndland shop. The central office. Ramps, counters, doors—all built around Liza.
“Aye, listen, I’ve spoken wi’ a lawyer. There’s nothing to worry about, honest, and—”
A loudcrashstopped him mid-sentence.
He spun around. The front window was suddenly clearer than it should have been.
Ah.
A brick sat in the middle of a wheel of brie, cheese oozing from the crushed rind. Behind it, a jagged hole gaped in the glass, shards scattered across the floor like broken teeth.
Daniel bolted for the door. “Oi!”
On the pavement, a figure—male, probably—dressed head to toe in black, hood pulled low, whirled around just long enough to flick him a two-fingered salute.
“That’s for Conor Kelly, arsehole!”
Then he was off.
Daniel charged after him, knowing full well that if he didn’t catch the guy, the police wouldn’t do a damn thing.
But then a scream. Sharp. High-pitched.
He skidded to a stop.
Whirled back toward the shop.
And felt his stomach plummet.
Flames and thick, black smoke poured from the shattered window, curling around the frame, licking hungrily at the sign. The brick had been the bait. Hoodie-boy’s accomplice had waited for him to chase after him and then firebombed the shop.
And Liza, in her wheelchair, was still inside.
Daniel tore back down the street, shoving past bystanders, his pulse thundering in his ears. A small crowd had gathered across the road, some filming, others gawping. Two people had mobiles pressed to their ears—calling 999, hopefully—but just to be sure, he bellowed, “Someone call the fire brigade!”
A man nodded, thumb in the air.
The acrid stench hit him before he reached the door—petrol, melted plastic, scorched cheese and meat. A barbecue turned nightmare. The flames were still contained to the front, for now, but that wouldn’t last.
Bottles of olive oil were stacked near the door. If the heat shattered them—if the flames reached the pooling liquid—the whole place would go up in seconds.
No sign of Liza.
He couldn’t risk opening the front door, not with the fire clawing for oxygen.
“Liza!” He roared. “Liza!”
“I seen her! She wheeled hersel’ through the back!”
A young mother called out, her child clutched tight to her hip, her palm pressed to his head, shielding him from the sight.
