Page 67 of The Chosen
Ariana
I didn’t know how much longer I could wait. A part of me was relieved we didn’t hear back from Victor’s buyer right away. While I’d mentally prepared myself to be restrained and tied up for the photo, I wasn’t ready to be used as bait. Not quite yet.
But it had been nearly eight hours, and still no word.
The more time that passed, the more I feared this guy wouldn’t respond. That he knew Victor was dead, and it was all a setup.
So I spent the day trying to distract myself by reading a book. When that didn’t work, I called my mom. She’d left for Staten Island a week ago, since I’d told her I’d be staying in Florida with Henry while Blake recuperated. It was great to hear her voice, all things considered.
But I didn’t tell her why I needed to hear her voice. I didn’t want her to worry. Not with how happy and full of life she sounded.
I now understood why Henry kept me in the dark about his meeting with the Bratva. Because I was doing the same thing to my mother.
“You don’t have to do all of this,” Henry remarked as I stood at the kitchen island and cracked an egg in the middle of my flour volcano, like my mother taught me when I was a child. “We could just order takeout.”
“I need to keep busy,” I admitted. “Otherwise, I’ll drive myself crazy. Plus, if this is to be my last meal, I want something good. Not takeout.”
It was meant as a joke, but Henry didn’t interpret it that way. Ever since I’d convinced him that using me as bait was the best course of action, he’d barely cracked a smile. I could physically see the weight burdening him.
“Please don’t say that,” he begged, his voice wavering as he cupped my cheeks in his hands. “This will not be your last meal. I will not let anything happen to you.”
He held my gaze for several moments, allowing the truth in his words to seep in.
I knew in my heart Henry would do everything to keep me safe. To protect me. To make sure nothing happened to me.
But I couldn’t ignore this strange premonition in my gut that something was about to go terribly wrong. I had no reason to think this way. We had a solid plan. Or as solid of a plan as possible under the circumstances. Still, there was an unsettled feeling nagging at me that we were grossly underestimating whoever this guy was.
“When I was in high school, I was fascinated by what people on death row chose for their last meal.”
“Ariana…,” Henry exhaled, obviously not liking this topic of conversation. But I needed this. Needed this to feel like any other day where we could discuss anything.
Henry must have sensed this because he didn’t ask me to stop, even if he hated this topic.
“John Wayne Gacey asked for a bucket of fried chicken from KFC. He used to manage one when he was younger.”
“Is that right?” Henry hummed.
“Yup. Timothy McVeigh asked for two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
“What about Ted Bundy?” he asked, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“He actually didn’t request anything specific, so he was given the standard last meal. I think it was something like steak and eggs. But he didn’t eat any of it. Which sort of proves my theory.”
He chuckled under his breath. “And what’s that?”
“Most people facing death don’t choose their favorite foods as their last meal. They choose a memory.”
He pushed off the counter, straightening. “A memory?”
“Exactly.” I pressed my hands into the flour, mixing the egg into it. “Ted Bundy was a complete psychopath since day one, so he didn’t have any memories he cared about. But John Wayne Gacey and Timothy McVeigh? Granted, they were really bad people, too. But their requests were based on a memory.”
It was silent for a moment as Henry seemed to consider my statement.
“How about you?” I pressed, continuing to knead the pasta dough. “What would you choose for your last meal?”
“Ariana…,” he exhaled again, obviously not wanting to continue this morbid topic.
“Humor me.”
