Page 79 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter sixty-two

T he next day

Danny’s injuries weren’t severe enough to warrant more than an overnight stay. After the consultant checked him over, porters wheeled him to a general ward, Nell trailing behind, her steps noticeably lighter.

The relief was short-lived.

Two plain-clothed police officers—one woman, one man—arrived not long after. When Danny relayed what the hoodie-wearing arsonist had said about Conor Kelly, they exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them.

Back in the early noughties, Conor Kelly—a well-known drug dealer—had been found dead in his car.

Or what little remained of him. The vehicle had been torched, the body inside reduced to little more than charred remains.

It had taken time to identify him. No one had ever been convicted, but the whispers never stopped.

The prevailing theory? Shane O’Malley had eliminated Conor when he tried muscling in on his territory.

The officers gave nothing away, their faces unreadable. But the man finally spoke, his tone clipped.

“We’re following a positive line of enquiry. Whoever firebombed the shop will be charged with attempted murder when we catch them.”

When, not if , Nell noted.

Danny had always been uneasy about the origins of that loan. He had repaid the money, distanced himself from his uncle, but it hadn’t been enough. The past had a way of clawing back debts.

He swallowed, voice rasping. “Liza… is she alright?”

The female officer nodded. “Aye, she’s fine. A bit bruised, but nothing serious. Gave us a statement earlier. Might well have been the real target of the attack.”

The irony. Liza hadn’t spoken to her stepfather in years, dropping all pretence of civility the moment her mother died.

Danny exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Nell squeezed his hand.

The officer’s expression softened as she turned to Nell with a grin.

“Your husband’s quite the hero. Took a huge risk going back into the shop to rescue his employee. You should’ve heard her—singing his praises!”

Danny rolled his eyes, but Nell only squeezed his hand, giddy with relief. How little it took to shift everything and let go of past hurts, grudges, the weight of old wounds.

She stayed for hours afterward, fetching him cans of ice-cold 7UP, patting his back when he coughed, grounding herself in the simple joy of being here. Of having this second chance.

There was still Mikey to talk about. But not now.

As she stood to leave, his voice stopped her.

“Nell.”

She turned. “Yes?”

His eyes met hers, steady. “I know about the boy. Your child. The letter… I read it yesterday.”

Her mind raced. What? How? Why?

And then, just like that, it all made sense.

Pieces of the puzzle slotting together across time and space, clicking into place with a quiet inevitability. That letter. The one she had written back in August but never found the courage to send. The one she had left behind, buried in paperwork, never once imagining he would come across it.

She had scooped up the paperwork and dropped it into his office. The letter must have been there, waiting, wanting to be read.

She searched his face for anger, for hurt that she hadn’t told him sooner. She found none.

Remarkable, wasn’t it, how time softened even the sharpest edges? The great, looming secret—once so heavy, so impossible—was about to be revealed, and yet she felt it lifting, floating away like a weightless thing.

She leant in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll tell you everything when we are back home. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” His fingers tightened around hers. “I love you.”

She smiled. “I love you too.”

The nurses sent them off with instructions the next day—how to manage the effects of smoke inhalation, how to use the crutches properly. When she asked about his return to work, they both shook their heads.

“Not for at least a week. Maybe two.”

Remarkably, her husband did not seem the least bit dismayed.

On the drive home, Nell filled him in on the insurance situation, the damage to the shop. Repairable, but slow. Months rather than weeks.

To her astonishment, Danny only shrugged. Mused aloud about giving the shop up altogether. He had others, after all.

Back at the house, the moment he sat down, Corrie launched into his lap, purring loudly as if all those months apart had meant nothing.

In the kitchen, Nell busied herself with the teapot, fussing over proper cups and saucers, carefully unwrapping foil-clad chocolate biscuits. Small, precise actions. Stalling.

The words of the letter she’d written echoed in her mind.

I didn’t do a good job of explaining how much thought went into my decision. Why, at twenty-one, the idea of having a child felt unbearable—especially when I’d already had one. A baby I gave up for adoption when I was fifteen.

I’ve always had an active imagination. I played out every scenario in my head, imagined all the ways you might react.

I wondered what would happen if I told you about the other child—if you’d stay, or if it would break us.

Every version of the future I could see ended badly.

Maybe my imagination isn’t as sharp as I thought. Maybe you wouldn’t have minded at all…

When she returned to the living room, he patted the sofa beside him. She hesitated, then sat. A single tear traced its way down her cheek.

“It’s a long story.”

“Nell, I dinnae judge. I just want to know.”

She took a breath. “When I moved to Scotland in 1994, I swore no one in Glasgow would ever know what happened to me when I was fourteen. I kept that promise. But I often wanted to tell you… because it’s the real reason I was so adamant I didn’t want children.”