Chosen by a Killer Page 5

  “And you didn’t feel... violated?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t coerced. I knew exactly what he wanted. I just made sure I had one of those little recorders like yours.”

  Celia shook her head. “You are very calculating, aren’t you?”

  “Well, we have to be, don’t we?” Natasha placed her hand on the notebook. “Are you saying that all you did to get here was work hard?”

  “I’m not judging at all. Just making an observation. But for the record, I haven’t slept with any supervisor. They don’t exactly have the charm of the Hollywood types.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen pictures of your John Talbot. Quite the little troll, isn’t he?”

  “I think of him more like a hobbit, actually.”

  Both women laughed again, and then the guard knocked at the door and entered.

  “Alas,” Natasha said. “Just when it was getting interesting.”

  They parted ways, and Celia followed Keith down the hallway.

  “She’s a pistol, isn’t she?” He remarked.

  “That she is. I feel a little sorry for the new guard.”

  Keith laughed. “Oh, he could use a little humbling, trust me. And she’ll get the job done.”

  “So has she been this way since she got here?”

  “She was kind of quiet at first. She observed everything closely. Some of the guards were either star-struck or determined to take her down a peg because she was famous. You know how that goes.”

  “Oh really?” Celia’s reporter senses went up. “Did anyone mistreat her?”

  “Oh, nothing like that,” Keith answered quickly. “Just sarcasm and trying to make sure she knew who was boss.” He chuckled a bit. “Of course, one guy asked her for an autograph.”

  “How did that go over?”

  “She gave him some creative ideas about what he could do to himself.”

  Celia laughed. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? So she adjusted, then what?”

  “Honestly, she’s pretty calm most of the time. She meets with her attorney. She occasionally asks for papers or magazines. She asks for your paper a lot.”

  That explained how Natasha had followed her career. “I’m flattered... I think.”

  “Yeah, she likes the way you write. She showed me a couple. You’re pretty talented.”

  “Thanks. So she seems to be pretty calm about the execution. Is that an act?”

  “It probably is, but it’s one she keeps up 24/7. If she’s afraid, she’s not showing anybody. In fact, the only emotion I’ve seen her show lately is the obvious dislike she has for that new guard.”

  “Yeah, that was obvious. Poor guy.”

  “Eh, he’ll be fine.” He pushed a button and the last door slid open. “Have a nice afternoon Ms. Brockwell.”

  “It’s Celia and thanks. You too.”

  After a full afternoon, Celia headed home and called a local Asian place for delivery. Bart had called, but she decided to turn off her phone for the night. She needed a little space after his overnight earlier in the week. Solitude was calling her name, along with a bottle of wine she’d picked up at an upscale little shop. After a long shower and dinner, she took the bottle of wine with her to her desk and got out the recorder. As her voice and Natasha’s droned on through the small speaker, Celia’s mind drifted away from the interview to her days in graduate school.

  “I saw that you were up for the Abbot Award, Celia. Congrats. I am too!” Paul said.

  “Thanks, Paul. Have you decided what you’re going to submit?”

  “I think so. I have a piece about the issues at the recycling center that Dr. Ross complimented.”

  Celia tilted her head purposefully. “Really? You’re submitting an opinion piece? That’s gutsy.”

  “You think? I mean, the guy the award is named after was an editor, right? He was best known for his byline.”

  “Oh yeah, he was. I’m just impressed you aren’t worried it will come off as a cliché. Good for you,” said Celia. “I wouldn’t have the courage.”

  “Hmm, maybe I should rethink...”

  “No, no, go with your gut. I’ll probably just play it safe with a straight fact piece.”

  Paul looked less enthusiastic. “Thanks, Celia. I guess I’ll see you later.”

  Celia shook her head and rewound the microcassette, annoyed with herself for getting distracted. What had made her think about that? It was so long ago. She’d end up submitting a pointed and opinionated piece about campus safety and double standards against women, and she’d won the award. Paul’s piece about the upcoming city elections didn’t even make the top three. Oh well, was it her fault he second-guessed himself? He’d been a year ahead of her and several years older. He should have trusted himself. It also wasn’t Celia’s fault the award got her a great internship that turned into her first job.

  After finishing her notes, Celia turned on her phone. It was almost 10:00, and she had three text messages from Bart. He was at a bar around the corner listening to some live music and invited her to join him. The wine was beginning to wear off, and Celia decided a little music might be fun. Besides, she felt energized, and maybe she and Bart could work up a sweat. At his place this time, though. She didn’t want him spending the night again. Celia put on something sexy, grabbed her purse, and headed to the bar.

  Chapter 7

  On Monday, Celia did something she rarely did. She called in sick. The weekend had been frustrating, and she’d overindulged for the first time in almost a decade. She knew she could work from home once her headache subsided, and she was getting tired of John lurking around trying to get some nugget from her about the prison interviews. If he was going to persist for the entire three months, she was going to have to sit him down and set him straight. To hell with his temper and control issues. She couldn’t deal with that after the weekend she’d had.

  For starters, it had been a mistake to join Bart at the bar. He was already a bit drunk once she got there, and he was handsy. Celia hated PDA, and she had to get firm with him to make him stop. Of course, by this time, she was drunk and needy, so she went ahead to his place to blow off some steam. He’d gotten angry when she wouldn’t stay, and they’d fought. She’d called him pathetic and clingy, and he’d called her an ice queen. Once she left, Celia stopped by a store and bought some more wine.

  On Saturday her phone had blown up with calls from Bart, and she’d ignored them all. The man behaved like a teenage girl. Once she’d had enough of the incessant interruptions, Celia took the train to the opposite side of town and meandered in and out of shops until dark. There was a billiard room at one corner, so she decided to see who she might hustle. Not that she needed the money, but her father had taught her how to play, and it was fun to watch some guy’s ego swell up and then deflate when she took his money. Luckily, she was one of the only women there, and decidedly the best looking, so she had plenty of players to choose from.

  One man, Thomas, was almost as good as she was. He had a bit of a swagger and a quick wit. He bought Celia a couple of drinks, and then he let her buy him a couple. After three games, he led her to a booth so they could both sit for a while.

  “So when you’re not hustling drunk guys, what do you do?” He asked.

  “I rob banks,” Celia quipped, sipping a glass of bourbon.

  “Oh really? Me too! Have you hit the Bank down on Robinson, ‘cause I’ve been casing that one for a week.”

  Laughing, Celia shook her head. “No really, what do you do?” She asked.

  “Boring things with numbers. Mostly glorified accounting. And you?”

  “I write for The Journal.”

  “I thought you looked familiar.” Thomas looked at her closely. “Yeah! You did that big piece on the crooked CEO, didn’t you? That was awesome.”

  “Why, thank you. I hope you weren’t his accountant!”

  “Definitely not,” Thomas laughed. “Let’s play another game.”

  “I’m tired of hustling,” Celia teased. “Wh
at should we play for?”

  “How about your place or mine?”

  Celia raised an eyebrow, but she smiled. “Sounds good. Rack ‘em up.”

  Thomas was good, but she was still better. After two games, they ended up at her place. She barely got the door closed before he was kissing her roughly. She pushed him back and held his shoulders. “If I say no, you stop. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “And if you don’t say no, I’m not stopping.”

  She let him push her backward to the bedroom, and then everything became a frenzy. Bart was tender and romantic and passionate, which had its benefits. Thomas was nothing like that. Celia hadn’t intended to let him stay, but she was so exhausted she fell asleep.

  A banging at the door a few hours later shocked Celia from sleep. Thomas was out, sprawled on his back and snoring. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.” Celia shook him just a bit until he mumbled and rolled over. She put on a robe, closed the door to the bedroom, and walked to the entryway. “Damn,” she whispered when she saw Bart through the peephole. She didn’t undo the chain but opened the door just enough to talk to Bart.

  “You haven’t answered your phone since the night before last. I was wondering if you were okay.”

  “I’m fine, Bart. Just a little busy. What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to apologize for the other night. I was over the line. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink, and I shouldn’t have pushed.” He tried to look around her through the small gap. “Can we talk?”

  “It’s not a good time Bart. And it’s early.”

  They both heard movement and a bit of stumbling. Thomas’s curse was muffled, but there was no doubting Bart heard a man’s voice.

  “What the hell, Celia?” Bart’s voice rose. “You went out and—?“

  “Look, Bart, I’m not having this conversation right now.”

  “You screwed someone else? Who is it? Your boss?”

  “Good god, Bart, of course not! It’s none of your business!”

  “Like hell! We’re together. It’s absolutely my business!” Bart pushed against the door.

  “You break the door, I’m calling the police. And we are not together. You made that choice when you became an ass Friday night. Besides, we only went out a few times.”

  “I swear to God, Celia, you better open this door.” Bart’s voice was low.

  “Go away. Do not come back. I will not have this conversation.” Celia put her full weight against the door and slammed it closed, locking it while she leaned against it. Bart pounded the door once and cursed, but he left. Good riddance, Celia thought.

  “Angry boyfriend?” Thomas came out with his jeans on and his shirt in his hand.

  “Just some idiot who can’t take no for an answer.”

  “Well, can you blame him?” Thomas smiled, pulling on his shirt. “I gotta go. Want to give me your number or no?”

  “It was great, but no,” Celia answered.

  “No problem,” he shrugged. “You know where I hang out if you want to try to hustle me again.”

  Thomas left, and Celia went back to bed. She flipped through channels until she wasn’t pissed anymore. Thomas was the kind of guy she needed. Fun, no questions, no expectations. Good for a romp, an ego boost, and then gone. It was Bart’s own fault he was upset. No one invited him to drop by like that. It was for the best. Now he’d leave her alone.

  Celia spent the rest of her Sunday morning watching trash television and working on her laptop. Her stomach was too unsettled from a night of drinking to make any lunch, so she just chugged coffee all day. Late in the afternoon, she went for a run, and then she stopped by the store. For some reason, she felt like baking. She supposed it was her conversation with Natasha. Celia decided she’d make a cake and take it to the prison, but with no file.

  Celia wasn’t sure why she enjoyed baking so much. Maybe it was because her mother didn’t let anyone in the kitchen. She’d told Celia it was her domain, and she didn’t want Celia going in there making a mess.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing, Celia. Cooking is an art.” Mrs. Brockwell said.

  “But I want to learn to cook! It’s my kitchen too.”

  “Actually, it isn’t. I pay the bills. There’s more to cooking than following a recipe, you know. You have to be creative.”

  “I can be creative!”

  “Celia, honey, you’re good at many things, but you aren’t creative. Just let me fix dinner, and you go do your homework.”

  Celia had surprised her mom by learning to out-cook her. She’d also created a good little side business baking cakes for friends and family’s birthdays, anniversaries, and such. Not that she was a big fan of gatherings, but it was fun to see someone’s face when she brought out a perfect cake, especially her mother’s.

  The phone rang, and Celia hoped it wasn’t Bart. It wasn’t; it was her neighbor, Lucille, asking if Celia had seen her cat. The woman was beside herself. Celia told her no, she hadn’t seen the old tabby, and she hung up before the woman started crying. Celia was not a fan of most animals, especially cats. However, this tabby was too old to cause much trouble, and she didn’t wail the way some cats did, so she didn’t bother Celia much. Not like that stupid tomcat that used to roam in the alley. That thing wailed half the night and left his paw-prints over everyone’s cars. Thank goodness a bit of antifreeze had solved that problem. Feral cats were one of the issues the city had tried to do a better job of addressing the past couple of years, and Celia was glad. Still, she’d go ahead and put up a flyer at the corner like her neighbor asked. It never hurt to have the neighbors on your side. The lady was always willing to watch Celia’s place or get the mail when she traveled. Her daughter rarely visited, and the elderly woman appreciated the fact that Celia always said hello.

  Once she had the cake on a cooling rack, Celia decided to catch up on some office work. Natasha Bronlov wasn’t her only story, and she wanted to finish a couple of outlines. She was saving a draft when she heard a knock at the door. She pulled aside the curtain and saw Bart’s car parked on the street. Rolling her eyes, she kept working. He knocked a couple of times, and then she heard a car start, and she watched him through the window as he drove away. Good, she thought. Maybe he’ll take the hint.

  By 9:00, Celia’s stomach was growling, and the screen on her laptop had started to blur. She needed something to eat, but cooking was out of the question. Instead, she grabbed a sleeve of crackers, some peanut butter, and a beer and sat on the sofa to watch television. She fell asleep there and barely moved until Monday morning when the headache that kept her home awakened her.

  Chapter 8

  Natasha was more than a little surprised when Celia walked into Room 4 with a cake in hand at their next visit. “They x-rayed it, so no file. Sorry,” Celia said dryly.

  Throwing back her head to laugh and slapping the table, Natasha asked, “Did you at least bring some forks?”

  “No forks, sorry. But I did manage a few spoons and some napkins,” Celia replied, pulling them from her pocket. She laid out a napkin for each of them, sloppily cut two slices with one of the spoons, and invited Natasha to taste the cake. It was a strawberry cake with buttercream frosting.

  “Oh my God, I may have a sugar orgasm,” Natasha moaned after taking a bite. “Why are you a reporter when you could be doing this full-time?”

  Celia smiled and picked at her own piece of cake. “It wouldn’t be fun if I had to do it.”

  “True,” Natasha said, pointing at Celia with a spoon full of frosting. “Still, I think I may request this for my last meal. The frosting alone is worth dying for.”

  Celia laughed, but then she considered Natasha’s flippant remark. “Not to ruin our treat, but how do you feel about losing your last appeal?”

  “You mean facing the fact that I am going to die? I try to be pragmatic about it.”

  “I think I would find that difficult.”

  “I did too, at first. I wante
d to win. Winning meant thwarting the death penalty. I poured an ungodly amount of my money into winning.”

  “Success has its benefits, even in prison.”

  “Exactly. However, after my second appeal failed, a chaplain came to visit me. I had managed to avoid such things during the trial and afterward, but I guess he slipped in,” Natasha rolled her eyes. “He asked me about the state of my soul and the afterlife.”

  “Interesting.” Celia wrote swiftly, found out the name of the chaplain, and then returned her attention to Natasha. “What are your thoughts on that?”

  “I understand how religion might give some people security. But I don’t need it, nor do I believe it. I believe he was sincere, and I wasn’t rude to him. But I did tell him I had no concerns about my eternal soul and let him know there would be no need for him to visit again.”

  “I see,” Celia replied.

  “Do you believe in a god or afterlife?” Natasha moved her napkin to the side and leaned in with interest.

  “Not really. I mean, I know objectively it cannot be proved either way. I suppose I’m agnostic. I just don’t see the relevance except, as you said, it gives comfort to some people.”

  “I didn’t think you seemed like the religious type,” Natasha nodded with approval. “I think I’d like another piece of that cake.”

  “Really?”

  “If there is no god, then gluttony is not a sin,” she teased.

  Celia cut another slice for Natasha, but she didn’t finish her own. “So you feel settled about the inevitable?”

  “After the chaplain visited, I thought about things. I realized that if there is no afterlife, I have nothing to fear from death. And truly, what most people want for those on death row is for them to be afraid. To suffer. By refusing to fear this, I am still winning, in a sense.”

  “I never thought of it that way, but it does make sense.”

  They sat in silence while Natasha savored her second slice of cake. Celia watched her and thought about what she had said. It made sense in a way, but it was also a bit odd. Natasha had shifted her thinking so that she could still win somehow. Celia supposed that made sense too. The actress was used to succeeding, getting what she wanted. Of course, she would spin what most people might consider a loss into a win.