I told them it was store-bought.
Wrapped it up nice in foil, packed warm in an old lunchbox.
Said it was rabbit—just rabbit. Nothing weird.
They took a bite. Laughed, nodded, smiled. "This is really good, Danny."
I didn't eat. I watched.
That was the first time I cooked for someone else.
The first time someone said thank you.
I liked the way it sounded in their mouths.
⸻
I plated with precision. The flesh—once raw and red—now golden, glazed in rosemary and butter, crisped at the edges like it had been kissed by heaven. The scent curled in the air: warm, rich, almost too good.
Carol leaned over the table, eyes wide. "God, Danny, this smells insane."
"Better than takeout?" I teased.
"Ten times," Tim said. "What cut is this?"
I smiled, setting the last plate down. "Thigh. Marinated overnight. Took hours to slow-roast."
They didn't question the tenderness. Why would they?
They dug in, fork and knife clinking softly. The first bite was always my favorite to watch.
Carol's eyes fluttered. "Jesus, you're wasted in law enforcement."
"I mean it," Tim added, already halfway through. "You cook like a goddamn professional."
I took a sip of wine, let it roll on my tongue. Red. Rich. Just the way he liked it.
"This deserves a toast," Carol said, raising her glass. "To Danny—killer cook and genius profiler. And to finally solving that nightmare of a case."
We clinked. I smiled.
But I didn't drink to the case.
I drank to the boy—his body now warmth in their stomachs, his silence buried under laughter.
…
They didn't know. Of course they didn't.
But I did. I always knew.
Every scrape of the fork against plate, every satisfied moan—it fed me more than the food ever could. This was communion. This was connection.
They would leave tonight with full bellies and lighter hearts, never guessing the truth. Never wanting to.
The boy was gone. But in this moment, he was with us.
Shared between friends. Celebrated. Honored.
Isn't that what we're all hungry for?
To be remembered.
To be devoured.