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N O T N O R M A L
(A Camille Grace FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 5)
K a t e B o l d
Kate Bold
Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); of the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); of the CAMILLE GRACE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); of the HARLEY COLE SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the KAYLIE BROOKS SUSPENSE THRILLER, comprising five books (and counting).
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2023 by Kate Bold. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright codemonkey m, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
BOOKS BY KATE BOLD
ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER
THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)
THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)
THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)
THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)
THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)
THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)
ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER
LET ME GO (Book #1)
LET ME OUT (Book #2)
LET ME LIVE (Book #3)
LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)
LET ME FORGET (Book #5)
LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)
CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER
NOT ME (Book #1)
NOT NOW (Book #2)
NOT WELL (Book #3)
NOT HER (Book #4)
NOT NORMAL (Book #5)
NOT AGAIN (Book #6)
NOT SAFE (Book #7)
NOT TODAY (Book #8)
HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER
NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)
NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)
NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)
NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)
NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)
NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)
NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)
KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE
LAST BREATH (Book #1)
LAST CHANCE (Book #2)
LAST WISH (Book #3)
LAST SHOT (Book #4)
LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
Rose Dearborn knew she had a choice to make: head back to the hotel room or end up in prison. Because if one more drunk man “accidentally” bumped into her or dished out another lazy, crude pick-up line, she was going to break someone’s nose.
She had a perfect buzz going on. Two more drinks and she’d cross the barrier into drunk. But wasn’t that why she and her best friend had come to Mardi Gras? Four days of unadulterated fun. Drinks, guys, music, no work. And more drinks. And now, on the first night, Rose was rather sad to find that she didn’t care for it. They could have stayed at home and closed down the bar at the local Chili’s and had just as much fun.
Well, maybe not Amy. Amy was enamored with the glitz and excitement of Mardi Gras. It was something she’d wanted to do since the age of thirteen and now, having turned twenty-one just three weeks ago, she was here, and she planned on living up every second.
In other words, Rose was in for a very long four days. She knew the Mardi Gras events lingered for several weeks on most years, and she just didn’t see how the city of New Orleans survived it. More than that, she didn’t know how women survived it. She’d seen countless drunk men, and by the time happy hours began at most bars, she’d also seen four different women eagerly flashing those same drunk men. It didn’t take a genius to know what was going through the minds of those men.
And that, really, was only the tip of the iceberg. It wasn’t just the horny men and the attention-seeking women. It was the mugginess, the noise, and the litter in the streets. Rose hated feeling this way. Here she was, a nice-looking, twenty-two-year-old woman at Mardi Gras and all she could think about was curling up on her couch in her Boston apartment with a book and a cup of mint tea. Jesus, she was becoming an old lady way too fast.
She had to get out of there. She hated to do it to Amy, but she was here for her own enjoyment too. And right now, she wasn’t enjoying much of anything. They were currently sitting in the small courtyard of a bar called—ah, God, she didn’t even know; they’d been to so many since three that afternoon. The crowd was getting thick and impossibly loud.
She looked over to Amy, who was currently speaking to two men seated at the little table behind them. She saw such joy in Amy’s eyes—and something far too much like hunger in the eyes of the men.
“Hey, Amy?”
To Amy’s credit, she turned away from the men right away to give her friend her attention. “Yeah?”
“I think I’m going to head back to the room.”
Shock came to Amy’s face first, then concern. “What? Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I think it might just be a headache. But it’s getting worse.” This was, of course, a lie. But it sounded better than It’s loud and crowded, and I’m getting annoyed.
Rose wasn’t even upset when she saw the disappointment come across Amy’s face. She’d almost expected it and understood fully. “Do you need me to—”
“No, no, of course not. You stay and have fun.” She then quickly looked over Amy’s shoulder to the two waiting men. “But be careful, yea?”
Amy nodded, though clearly still uncertain. “And you’re sure you’re fine?”
“Yeah, I think I will be. I’ll rest up tonight, and we can give it a go tomorrow. Bright and early. Mimosas by the river.”
“On a boat, maybe?”
Rose smiled as she got up. “Maybe.”
She gave the two men a suspicious yet slightly playful glance as she got up and took her leave. As she stepped back out onto the street, it took her a moment to reorient herself. All these streets looked the same, especially with the crowds of partiers at every corner. She stood at the corner of the bar for a moment, looked around slowly, and finally figured out where she needed to go. In the fifteen seconds or so it took her to do it, she was approached by two different men. The second one came to her with extreme confidence, the look of a man that was rarely told no.
“Hey, sweetie,” he said without much enthusiasm. “You looking for—”
“No.”
That was all she said as she walked on, ignoring him completely. He didn’t bother stopping for her, instead he walked away and uttered “bitch” just loud enough to make sure she heard it. Rose rolled her eyes and continued on, making the walk of three blocks with her guard up.
As she walked, she kept her eyes on the occasional policemen stationed along the streets, set in place as a reminder of what might happen if things got too out of control. She used the cops as guideposts, following them as sort of a trail as she ignored one more man and then chose not to punch one that conveniently slid past her and grazed her butt with his hand.
God, she hated this. She’d go back home tomorrow if she could.
When she got back to the hotel and stepped inside, the lobby was slightly rowdy. There were young people checking in, some clearly having already indulged in the day’s festivities. She hurried to the right, toward the first-floor rooms. They’d gotten a room on the first floor because Amy had insisted that she would not be stumbling up flights of stairs when she came home late at night. Already, Rose was thinking of a nice, calming shower. Maybe some sitcom reruns on TV and a cup of decaf coffee.
Jesus, even your coffee is like that of an old person.
She smiled in spite of herself as she walked inside. She sat on the edge of the bed and kicked her shoes off. She wondered if Amy was having fun yet. She wondered if those two men had convinced her to leave with them. She knew Amy could take care of herself, but
Maybe I shouldn’t have left her, she thought.
She got up and walked over to the window, realizing that she could still hear the thrum of nightlife from below. She then saw it was because they’d left the window open from earlier, letting the breeze in. That breeze came and glided across her face. It felt nice. It felt—
Wait. I didn’t open the window. And I’m pretty sure Amy didn’t either.
Then again, it did sort of seem like an Amy thing to do. Hey, let’s open the window and yell at some guys out on the street. In fact, hadn’t she actually said something to that effect when they’d checked in? She couldn’t quite remember. Maybe she was a little more buzzed than she thought.
Still, it made Rose feel very uneasy. She closed the window and locked it. Looking around her room, nothing looked disturbed. She checked her suitcase and found nothing missing. Feeling rather silly, she even looked behind the long, flowing curtains by the window, but found no one there.
She stepped away from the windows and heard something behind her. A door softly opening, she thought.
Rose turned and watched as a man came rushing out of their bathroom. She opened her mouth to scream, but the man was on her before she could get a sound out. The last thing she saw before he cupped a massive hand to her mouth was a devilish smile and a glimmer in his eyes that reminded her far too much of the hunger that she’d seen in the eyes of the two men with Amy.
Only this was angrier, darker . . . and seeing it, Rose knew this was the end. She could only hope that it came quickly and without too much pain.
CHAPTER TWO
It had taken almost two weeks, but Camille had finally summoned up the courage to track down the man she believed to be linked to her sister. Honestly, it hadn’t been a lack of courage; if anything, it had been the rational side of her mind telling her that if she made this step, there might be no going back. If she made this step, she was in it deep.
The man’s name was Will Lucia, and Camille was currently parked in front of his house. He was a chiropractor in New Orleans and, from what her old friend and mentor Deanna had told her, he may very well be linked to Nanette, her sister. It was Will Lucia that was standing next to Nanette in the picture Deanna had showed her—a picture taken many years after Nanette’s disappearance. Lucia was the only person she had a solid connection to in the time after Nanette had disappeared—a time where Camille had eventually forced herself to consider that her sister may actually be dead.
Disappearance. That word was very important. Because now Camille knew that her sister was not dead. She was alive, out there somewhere, and Will Lucia might be her best bet to find her.
She looked to the house and tried to think of what she’d say. Because this wasn’t an official case, she couldn’t approach Lucia as an FBI agent seeking information. She was a sister, looking for a sibling that she hadn’t seen for nearly fifteen years.
She reached for the door handle and paused, wondering if she should text Deanna to let her know what she was about to do. After a moment of thought, she decided not to. There was no use getting Deanna upset. Deanna would probably just try to talk her out of it anyway. Then again, if Deanna didn’t want her looking into any of this, why would she have shown Camille the picture of an older Nanette with a curly-haired man—a man Nanette had later identified as a chiropractor she’d once visited?
Keeping her phone in her pocket, Camille finally stepped out of the car. She made her way up the concrete sidewalk, looking to her right and then her left. It was an upper-class neighborhood—the sort with a clubhouse in its center, complete with a gym, community pool, and pickleball courts. On her way in, she’d passed by at least three houses with built-in pools in their sizable back yards.
It was a Saturday, so she assumed a chiropractor would not be in the office. Still, as she made her way to the front door and raised her hand to knock, she was fully prepared to not get an answer—to leave Lucia’s house with the knowledge that she’d have to convince herself to come again at a later time.
She knocked and then, for good measure, also rang the digital video doorbell. She stepped back and waited for an answer. She was surprised to get a response in less than ten seconds. The door opened halfway, and a man looked out at her. Camille found herself greeted by the man that had been in the picture Nanette showed her. He was a bit older now, most of it showing in his receding hairline. But it was definitely him. This man had seen her sister sometime in the last few years—had maybe even had some sort of relationship with her.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Maybe,” Camille said, realizing that she still wasn’t quite sure how she wanted to go about this. “My name is Camille Grace. Long story short, I have a sister that I haven’t seen in a very long time, and I think you may have some connection to her—or had some connection to her.”
Lucia looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Um, okay. What sort of connection? Are you talking about a patient of mine?”
“I don’t know. But what I do know is that an old family friend of mine showed me a picture of you with my sister. From a year or two ago.”
She’d gotten his attention with that. He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch with her, making it quite clear that she would not be invited inside. “And what is your sister’s name?”
“Nanette Grace. That’s her actual name, but who knows . . . she may be going by something different. I have no idea.”
He looked to be legitimately giving it some thought, eventually frowning, and giving her a shrug. “The name doesn’t sound familiar. But if it’s a patient, I hate to say that I just don’t know all of their names right off the top of my head.”
Camille wasn’t angry, but when she took her phone out of her pocket, she did indeed feel a little moment of barbed triumph. She had the picture in question on her phone. Seeing her face would surely bring Lucia around. It was the best evidence you could get in a situation like this. She quickly pulled up the picture and showed it to him. She glanced at it again herself—Will Lucia with her sister, his arm around her in a way that seemed to be something beyond basic familiarity.
“That’s her,” Camille said. “And that . . . well, that’s clearly you.”
She watched his face as he looked at the picture. She saw several things all at once—some that might have been missed by anyone else who had not spent the last several years learning to read the expressions and non-verbal cues of psychopaths. She did see a flicker of recognition and then something very much like alarm. But it all came and passed within just two or three seconds before Lucia’s face returned to its apologetic, confused state.
“That is me,” he said. “But I don’t know who that is.”
It was such a stupid comment that it took Camille a moment to process it. “Do you make a habit of taking pictures with women you don’t know?”
“No, of course not, I—”
“Your arm is around her. You look pretty happy.”
Lucia made another effort to look at the picture, but Camille could easily see the frustration all over his face. “I’m trying to make out where that is. I wonder if it might be a conference or something like that. Any chance she was going to school for medicine or nur—”
“No,” Camille said. And then, shoving her phone back into her pocket, she said, “Why are you lying, Mr. Lucia?”
He stood tall then, doing his best to put on an authoritative stance that came out of nowhere. “I don’t appreciate you knocking on my door to call me a liar.”
“I didn’t. I knocked on your door to ask how you knew my sister. And you’re not being honest about it.”
“I can tell you right here and now that I do not know the woman in that picture! There are often several people that ask me for pictures at conferences—usually people I have helped over the years or the family members of those that I have helped. That woman must be—”
“Fine,” Camille said. Before she knew she was doing it, she had started back down his stairs. “I’ll find out one way or the other. I really wish you would have made it easy on me.”
