Chosen by a Killer Read online

  This book is dedicated to my husband Larry, who has convinced himself I am brilliant, to my friend Belinda, who loved my story even though she is the toughest English teacher I know, and to my oldest, who is a great writer herself and has an eye for detail in proofing.

  Singing River Publishing

  CHOSEN BY A

  KILLER

  LAURIE L NAVE

  Copyright © 2021 by Singing River Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions ” at https://www.singingriverpublishing.com

  SINGING RIVER PUBLISHING

  Florence, Alabama

  www.singingriverpublishing.com

  First Edition

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Prologue

  January

  Theater seating was a macabre choice for a room used to witness an execution. Celia swallowed her nausea as she walked past several worn chairs, selecting one in the front row. The creaking of seats unfolding behind her was like scratches on a chalkboard. The closed curtains behind the glass were a muted pattern of maroon and navy blue, leftover from the 1990s.

  Celia’s gaze dropped to the dark, sensible pumps she wore, willing the curtain to stay closed. Voices whispered behind her, but Celia listened to her breathing; she didn’t want to know what the voices were saying. The murders, the scandals, the stories, none of that mattered to Celia. Her friend was about to die.

  Light falling over her shoes meant the curtains had opened. Look up, Celia thought. Look at her. Her gaze lifted just in time to see Natasha’s head turn toward her. The two women, one seated in front of the glass and one lying on the gurney behind the glass, barely nodded at each other.

  An orderly stood over Natasha and inserted an intravenous line into her right arm.

  Celia winced as her own right arm twitched.

  She blinked and held her arm protectively as the same orderly walked to the opposite side of the gurney and inserted an additional line into Natasha’s left arm.

  “The inmate has waived her right to a final statement.”

  Natasha was still watching her. The actress smiled at Celia, and Celia mirrored her expression. When Natasha made a fist, Celia gripped the arm of her chair.

  The fast-acting barbiturate came first. Its job was to render the inmate unconscious. Celia watched Natasha relax, and she looked away when the actress closed her eyes. She knew what came next – a paralytic, and then the poison. Someone behind a thin wall was pressing a series of pumps, and her friend would quietly suffer cardiac arrest.

  In four counts, out four counts. Celia breathed robotically, watching the second-hand jerk slowly. With every movement, her heart rate accelerated, even as her friend’s heart slowed.

  Four minutes after she closed her eyes, the physician and warden pronounced Natasha Bronlov dead from a lethal injection. The orderly disconnected the lines as the curtains began to close.

  Not yet!

  Celia pressed the glass as the room tilted. She swallowed bile and she was certain the others observing could hear the ringing in her ears.

  “Can you stand?” Keith was beside her.

  She nodded and allowed him to help her out of the creaky chair. They walked up the concrete steps and out the door.

  “Are you okay?”

  But Celia didn’t hear him. She was already stumbling toward the ladies’ room. She slammed the stall door and began retching as she bent over the toilet.

  After the wave passed, Celia leaned against the stall door. There was no way she was sitting on the dirty floor in her suit. She bent over further, putting her head between her knees as she fought another wave. Except for the ringing in her ears, it was quiet.

  That could have been me.

  Chapter 1

  SEPTEMBER

  I swear to God if that blowhard made me miss my flight...

  Celia jogged to her gate, cursing the CEO she’d just interviewed, and was relieved to see that people were still boarding. As she flashed the attendant her boarding pass and headed down the jetway, her cell phone rang. It was her boss, John, micromanaging again.

  “Celia Brockwell.”

  “Hey, you on your way back yet? How was the interview? Did he cave?”

  “I’m boarding the plane, John.”

  “Good, so you got the story?”

  “I always get the story. Can this wait? It’s been a long day.”

  “Just checking,” he chuckled. “This is the biggest thing we’ve got this week.”

  “It’s under control. You’ve got your lead story, and he’s gonna need more lawyers.”

  “Good, as I said, you’re the biggest one we’ve got, as usual. I like to make sure.”

  "I heard you the first time, John.” Celia rolled her eyes. "I've got it, John. Look, the flight attendant is walking this way. Cell phones have to be off now." Without waiting for an answer, she ended the call and dropped the phone into her briefcase.

  “Don’t you hate these small planes?” The older lady beside her remarked. “No business class.”

  “They aren’t built for comfort, that’s for sure.” Celia adjusted a small neck pillow.

  “You’re smart, sleeping through takeoff. It always makes me nervous.” She rifled through her purse. “Gum? It keeps your ears from popping.”

  “Thank you.” Celia took a piece.

  As the attendant droned on about safety and oxygen masks, Celia tried a power nap. Dozing kept her anxiety at bay. Strange that she still felt it after a decade of flying.

  “Takeoffs and landings are the worst,” she’d told a therapist years before.

  “It’s because you aren’t in control.” That was the therapist’s 200-dollars-an-hour conclusion.

  Celia glanced over at the older woman, who was engrossed in a book. Then she pulled out her tablet and opened her interview notes. As she listened to the interview recording, she began a loose outline for the article she would write about the corrupt businessman.

  Hayward Ingleson had been skittish at first. He was under investigation for more than a few violations, from ethics to corporate regulations, and he was defensive. They always were in the beginning.

  “Your career has been successful, and your longevity impressive, Mr. Ingleson. Don’t you think the business world, your colleagues, would benefit from hearing your story? I mean, you’ve been a leader and a mentor for so long. I think they need to hear your voice amid all this noise. Don’t you?”

  Celia smiled as she listened to Hayward begin talkin
g. The tactic worked. As always, the best way to lower the guard of a narcissist was to tell him how important he is. And let him think you’re on his side. They can’t resist talking about themselves.

  “So, what do you think about this assertion that transferring Lydia Gross was an ethics violation, based on your prior...involvement?”

  Hayward was still pontificating when Celia slipped in the first tough question, and he just kept going. By the time Hayward realized Celia wasn’t on his side, he’d said too much. All she had to do was spin his words back to him, and after an hour, there was enough for a lead story. He was furious, of course, and his backpedaling had nearly made her miss her flight. Arrogant bastard.

  "Aren't you Celia Brockwell?" An attendant asked as she served drinks.

  "I am," Celia smiled. “I’d like a chardonnay.”

  "Oh my goodness, I love your articles. I'm taking classes part-time to become a writer. I would love to do what you do. Traveling all over, writing important stories."

  "I do love my job."

  "I bet you do. Any tips for a new writer?"

  "Work your ass off." Celia laughed.

  Celia sipped the wine as the attendant walked away. There’s no way she’s a writer. Maybe a future mommy blogger, but not a journalist. Too much sorority and not enough spine.

  Remembering her own brief sorority experience, Celia chuckled. It had been at her mother’s insistence; she was a legacy. Maybe it would look good on a resume, especially if Celia was an officer. But Celia dropped out her sophomore year. Thursday night swap parties and gossip were not her things, and the restrictions were stifling. Not to mention the president was a pretentious bitch. After she had quit, Muffy—or whatever her name was—spread the rumor that Celia was the sorority slut.

  Celia had her chance to get back at Greek life the next year, however, when a pledge accused a senior fraternity member of sexual assault—a guy who also happened to be the president’s boyfriend. The fraternity and sorority had sided with him, and they blackballed the poor pledge. So much for sisterhood. Then a few more girls came forward, and Celia wrote a scathing article in the campus paper demanding that the University take action. In the end, the senior was expelled and charged, and Celia was the new chief editor of the newspaper her senior year.

  Mom was right. Greek life was a benefit after all. And look where I am now.

  “So, you are Ms. Brockwell,” the middle-aged man across from her said.

  “The one and only.” Celia kept scrolling.

  “Still at The Journal?”

  She looked up then. The blond man looked familiar, and his suit was expensive and well-fitted. “Still there. And you are?”

  “William Keller. CEO of – “

  “Multicorp, yes. I thought you looked familiar.” She shook his hand.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your research. It looks serious.”

  “There’s always work to do,” she turned over the tablet. “I’m sure it’s the same for you.”

  “Definitely. You’re quite the writer. Very astute and straightforward.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s rare to read a story that isn’t editorialized or emotionally manipulated these days.”

  “True,” Celia sipped her chardonnay.

  “I’ll let you get back to work.” William closed his eyes.

  By the time the plane began its descent, Celia had a tight outline of the article, along with a list of damning quotes from Mr. Ingleson. John would run it as the lead, and Celia would probably have another award to hang on her wall. God bless corruption.

  The airport arrival area was crowded; however, Bart waved to get Celia’s attention once she rounded the corner toward the exit. She smiled and waved back. He insisted on picking her up, even though they’d only had a couple of dates.

  “How was your flight?” Bart took her bag.

  “It was fine. You didn’t have to meet me here. I could have taken a cab.”

  “You had a long day. I didn’t want you to have to fight for one.”

  “Thanks, I am a little tired.” Celia slid into the passenger seat as Bart put her bag in the trunk.

  “Are you hungry, or do you just want to go home?”

  “I just want to get comfortable. Home is fine.”

  While Bart navigated rush hour traffic, Celia listened to him prattle on about his job, a new intern, and his great golf game. He pointed out a couple of places that had good takeout, but Celia ignored the hint. She wasn’t in the mood for company or romance. When they arrived at her place, he hopped out and grabbed her luggage.

  “I’d ask you in, but I’m just beat.” Celia smiled as Bart handed her the overnight bag. “Are we still on for dinner at 7:00 tomorrow?”

  “Sure thing,” Bart kissed her lightly. “Get some rest.”

  Lucille, Celia’s neighbor, greeted her as she walked toward her house. “Hello, dear. Have a good trip?”

  “I did. Glad to be home.”

  “I have your mail ready. I can go get it now for you.” Lucille left before Celia could comment.

  “Thank you.” Celia took the stack.

  “Here you go, dear. Have a good evening.”

  After dropping her bag in the foyer, Celia flipped through the mail. There were bills, a couple of catalogs, the usual. Then a manilla envelope caught Celia’s attention. The address was written in a flowing script, and the postmark was from Delaware. Who did Celia know in Delaware?

  Then she looked at the return address. There was no name, but there was a place: Baylor Women’s Correctional Facility.

  Chapter 2

  Who would be writing to me from prison? Celia studied the writing, trying to play a guessing game with herself. The script looked vaguely familiar.

  After ripping the envelope, Celia turned to the last page of the handwritten letter. She wanted to know who had sent it before reading; it was a practice she’d begun early in her career. When she saw the name, her curiosity skyrocketed. It was from Natasha Bronlov.

  Celia didn’t know the famous model and actress personally, but she knew her work. She’d seen a couple of movies. The Oscar-winner was supremely talented. However, it was Natasha’s arrest and conviction that truly made her a household name. In 2007, the world watched as Natasha was arrested, tried, and convicted of the murder of five men, the last of whom was her father. The evidence was overwhelming, and it had only taken the jury three hours to come back with a guilty verdict.

  The sentencing had been another shock. In an age where the death penalty was more and more controversial, the judge sentenced the actress to death by lethal injection. “Yes,” Celia thought aloud, “I’m definitely reading this letter.”

  Dear Ms. Brockwell:

  I am sure you are somewhat surprised to receive correspondence from me. I will, therefore, come to the point. As I am sure you are aware, my last appeal was denied, and so it seems that my execution will take place soon. I loathe the vultures of the press and have declined to give them a single breadcrumb of my story. However, I have followed you and your career closely for quite a few years, and I have immense respect for you.

  The flattery was obvious, something Celia might have done herself. Still, it made the reporter smile to think of the actress sitting on death row, reading her articles.

  I understand that you prefer to maintain a distance from the stories on which you report. This, in my opinion, has been one of the reasons you excel. However, I would like to grant one authentic telling of my story before I am executed by the state of Delaware, and I would like you to conduct that series of interviews.

  Celia smiled; Natasha had read her mind. Celia didn’t do melodrama and emotion, which is what a story about an immigrant beauty turned serial killer would need. This story would be the only story; Natasha hated the press. Why choose a facts-only writer, Celia wondered as she continued to read.

  I am sure you are puzzled by my request, but I believe you to be the only one who can correctly tell my story.
I ask that you consider my request, as I would very much like to meet you and speak with you.

  So Natasha Bronlov wanted Celia to conduct not just one interview, but a series. After closing the door to the press following her arrest, the actress was swinging it wide open, but only for one journalist—Celia. She imagined the faces of her colleagues, especially John.

  I do not want this story released until after my execution. This will not be a sordid retelling of the crimes’ physical details. All of those were available during the trial. I ask for the utmost discretion and that no details be released until the series is finished. I have included an outline and tentative calendar, which of course can be adjusted to accommodate your prior engagements.

  The letter closed with contact details for her lead attorney, along with procedures for drawing up a contract. If Celia took the story, she would have three months to conduct the interviews. Three months to get to know an enigma and tell her story. It wasn’t a lot of time.

  However, Celia could hardly resist. It would be the crime story of the century, and she would be the only reporter who would ever be given true access to the actress’s life. This would be the one that propelled Celia’s career to world-famous status. She couldn’t turn away the opportunity to interview the nation’s most beautiful psychopath.

  As she crawled into bed, Celia reread the letter. She wasn’t telling John about this. She wasn’t telling anyone. And first thing tomorrow, she was calling Andrew, Natasha’s attorney. She picked up her tablet and crafted an email before turning out her light.

  AT 10:00 THE NEXT MORNING, Celia was on hold, waiting to speak with Natasha’s attorney. As the poorly chosen music played over the phone, she doodled on her notepad. She had a scheduled call to discuss the particulars of her first interview with Tasha, and in typical fashion, the lead attorney was keeping her waiting. She was used to the tactic; he wanted her to know who was in charge. However, after having read the initial correspondence and tentative contract, Celia knew exactly who was in charge: Natasha Bronlov. Oh, she was demure enough to let the attorney believe he was, but Celia recognized the ruse; it was one she had used several times in her own career. Powerful men generally liked to believe they held sway over an attractive woman, even if they did not, and it was often advantageous to let them believe it.