Not Well (A Camille Grace FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 3)

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Camille already liked her New Orleans apartment much more than the place she’d had in Birmingham, but there were times when she felt that it was haunted by the ghost of her sister. Even though she now had reason to believe Nanette was still alive, her sister’s presence seemed to loom over the place. It had been especially bad ever since she’d found out that her family had been keeping secrets from her. As Camille dug deeper into her sister’s cold case, the sensation grew ever worse, like a strange humidity within the apartment.

But she loved the apartment itself and all it stood for. At first, she thought it was just the freedom of living on her own again, but after a week or so, she came to understand that it was the apartment itself. The neighborhood was really nothing special; she was about eight blocks away from the bustling energy of where the French Quarter began and just far enough away from any other touristy places to keep the streets quiet and reserved.

It was a small place, so she’d gotten a good deal on it. There was an exposed beam that ran up through the floor and connected to the ceiling, serving as the separating article between her small living room and even smaller kitchen. The hardwood floors were old but in a special sort of charming way, and the window by her small kitchen table looked out onto a small strip of puny forest between the complex’s back lot and a small park.

In other words, not too shabby for a second shot—for a shot at starting over.

She’d also purchased a small couch from a second-hand furniture store in town. It was the only piece of furniture in her living room, but she loved it. It’s where she read and relaxed, where she napped and occasionally watched television. But, more than anything else, it’s where she sat when she went over the details of her sister’s case.

She’d only managed to find a few notes on the disappearance of one Nanette Grace from nearly fifteen years ago. A young woman that seemed to have simply disappeared without a trace one night after performing with a small up-and-coming jazz band in the French Quarter. Most had presumed her dead, but she now had reason to believe her sister was very much alive. She printed them out in secret from her secluded little office at the field office but had elected to take them to her apartment and leave them there. She’d not yet fully earned the trust of her new assistant director, a friendly yet no-nonsense woman named Marie McCutcheon, and the last thing she wanted was for McCutcheon to find that she was looking around in case files from over a decade ago. Not to mention case files pertaining to a personal matter.

Currently, though, it was not the files on Nanette’s disappearance that interested her. Instead, she was looking through her Aunt Deanna’s social media. Not that Deanna was really her aunt; that’s just how Camille had always thought of her. Although, as of about ten days ago, she was finding it quite hard to think anything positive about Deanna Lewiston. As a constant fixture in Camille’s life since birth, Deanna had always been fun and dependable, helpful and nurturing.

But ten days ago, her father had let it slip that Deanna had seen Nanette twelve years ago—three years after Nanette had disappeared. And all this time, no one had told her. She’d been left in the dark for reasons she didn’t care to think about. This sort of betrayal from her father didn’t really surprise her, but when it came from Deanna, it was heartbreaking.

Deanna had texted twice in the past ten days. She had no idea that Camille knew about the visit She’d just been checking in, wanting to see when they could get together again. Camille had ignored both texts, not quite ready to face her just yet.

For the past two afternoons, Camille had been going through Deanna’s social media accounts. The woman was a bit of a homebody and, though she had f*******:, Twitter, and i********: accounts, she wasn’t very active on any of them. In fact, her last Twitter post had come nearly two full years ago, providing a link to a local pottery class. Still, despite Deanna’s inactivity, her accounts provided a snapshot into the people she knew. And while Camille had no illusions of accidentally stumbling across a f*******: page for Nanette, she thought there might be clues of some kind. It was a very faint trail of breadcrumbs to follow, but it at least gave her the smallest bit of hope. Besides…one of the main reasons she took the bureau job in New Orleans was to be closer to the community where she’d been raised. And she’d known it would eventually lead to her looking deeper into her sister’s disappearance.

Camille had been looking through the accounts of Deanna’s social media friends for nearly three hours when she came across a face that looked eerily familiar. It was a woman named Rose Dawson, from Oxford, North Carolina. With just a passing glance, the woman bore a striking resemblance to Nanette. The age was right, and the hair color was spot on.

Camille’s chest tightened for only a moment, though. A glance of more than two seconds revealed that it was not Nanette. The angle of the eyes wasn’t right, and the lips were too full. Even though she’d not seen her sister in fifteen years, she could tell this woman was not her. While she knew Nanette would not be the eighteen-year-old version of the girl Camille remembered, she had no doubt that something inside of her—be it her instincts or the very core of her heart—would recognize her sister.

So she scrolled past Rose Dawson and continued to search. Within a few more profiles, her phone buzzed in her hand. She was fully expecting it to be Deanna again. She knew it would not be her father because he’d been avoiding her. Not only had he angered her, but he was also afraid she was going to continue to push him to get treatment for the cancer diagnosis he’d been dealt nearly a year ago.

But when she reached her finger up to cancel the notification, she saw a name she’d thought of a few times in the past ten days. Zack Hayes. A zoologist out of Chalmette, Zack taught at a community college up that way and helped the smaller police departments from time to time when it came to coyote and gator attacks. They’d spoken only briefly during her time on her last case but it had stuck with her—and him, too, given that he’d tried convincing her to stick around and have dinner with him. She’d ultimately declined, because she wasn’t ready to date having just moved to a new city, and she’d been waiting for his text ever since.

Didn’t want to be presumptuous and call first, the text read. So I figured I’d text. Now that I’ve officially texted, can I call?

She smiled, glad to be looking away from the monotonous stream of f*******: profiles. And rather than respond to the text, she called him instead. It rang only a single time before he answered.

“Is this like a powerplay or something?” he asked. “You had to call me to make the first move?”

“This isn’t a move,” she argued. “Sorry if you feel emasculated.”

“Not at all. If anything, it feels nice not to be the one to make the first call. So…how are you? How are things in N’ollins?”

“I’m still getting acclimated. And by the way, no one in this city actually talks like that. Well…maybe a few. But no one says the city name like that.”

“I’ll make a note of that. It’ll be good to know for the trip I’m about to take out to your neck of the woods.”

She smiled, instantly excited about the news. “And what brings you my way?”

“My great aunt’s memorial service.”

“Oh…oh, I’m sorry.”

“Eh, at the risk of sounding insensitive, I barely knew her. I’m really just going to support my mother. They were really close. But yeah…I’ll be there in two days. The thing is…I won’t really have a lot of time to spend. I have to get back home pretty quickly. So that really only leaves me with a very unorthodox suggestion.”

“Which is?”

“There’s a potluck afterwards, at the church my mother attends. Want to meet me there?”

It wasn’t at all what she was expecting. Everything her told her to say no; even though she was very interested in Zack, the situation was just too weird. Even stranger, though, was that when she opened her mouth to answer, “Sounds good,” came out.

“Really? That’s not too weird for you?”

“Oh, it’s all kinds of weird,” Camille said. “But it’ll be interesting. I guess that’s the right word to use. What’s the church?”

“Cornerstone Baptist on Weaving Street. You know it?”

Camille was glad they weren’t speaking face to face because she couldn’t help but cringe. Yes, she knew the church. It had some very unpleasant family connections for her—connections she’d rather not bring to the surface.

“I know it,” she said. “And now that I think of it, I don’t know—”

Her phone beeped in her ear as another call came through. She quickly glanced at the call display and saw that it was the office. More notably, it was Assistant Director McCutcheon.

“Hey, Zack, I have another call and I have to take it. It’s my director.”

“Say no more. Want me to just give you a buzz when I get into town?”

“Sure thing. Do that. And thanks for reaching out.”

“Hey, you’re the one that called me,” he pointed out, and then ended the call.

Camille switched over to the other line. As it was nearing 10:30 at night, she could only assume the call from McCutcheon would put her on a case—if not immediately tonight, then tomorrow.

“This is Agent Grace,” she answered.

“Grace, I need you to be in my office at 7:30 tomorrow morning. There’s a case I’d like you to run with.”

“I can do that. Any preliminary notes or material I can look over in the meantime?”

“We’re still getting it all together. Some details are still coming in from the State Police. I should have it all in the morning.”

“Understood.”

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to pair you with someone yet,” McCutcheon said. “If I do make that decision, are you good working with Palmer? He had very nice things to say about you and the two of you seem to work well together.”

“Yes, Palmer would be fine. I have no objections to that.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

They ended the call with Camille feeling a little off-center. McCutcheon was very easy-going and conversational. The two supervisors she’d had in the past had been more like drill sergeants than supervisors. And though she still didn’t quite have her new assistant director figured out, she did feel more at ease in her new location than she’d expected. McCutcheon was one of the reasons, Palmer was another, and her growing love for the city—a city she’d always viewed with a bit of resentment from her childhood years—was another reason.

Putting the phone down, Camille also started to gather up the few files she had on Nanette. She’d done enough for tonight, especially considering that she was already fairly certain she’d never make any progress on the case. Too much time had elapsed; even if she managed to find a thread somewhere in the old files, it would be old and buried by now.

Camille readied herself for bed and found that when she was under the covers, she simply wasn’t ready for sleep. She was thinking of Nanette, sure, but also of Cornerstone Baptist Church. It was not a church she’d ever attended, but one that her mother had often spoken of. And what really hurt was that she would probably end up canceling on Zack just to avoid the memories of her mother and of Nanette whom, on more than on occasion, had sung in the choir at Cornerstone Baptist on special revival Sundays.

Under her covers, Camille could feel her past and present starting to collide. It was heavy on her heart and made her wonder if, despite her recent rekindled love for New Orleans, her past would end up pushing her away from it all.