The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 63

That tiny speck of crimson light blinked persistently in the dark, like a bloodthirsty mosquito greedily draining whatever privacy she had left.

As her heart plummeted into an icy abyss, a towering inferno of rage flared up inside her.

She didn't move.

She didn't even allow her breathing to change rhythm.

She just quietly stared at the tiny recorder, watching it pulse like a beating heart, silently declaring its presence in the dead-quiet hallway.

If she took it now, whoever planted it would instantly know she had found it.

Panic, fury, and tipping her hand.

That was the foolish reaction the old Annelise would have had.

But she was no longer that woman.

She slowly straightened up, her movements as light as a feather.

Then, she bent down and used her fingertips to gently smooth out the flipped corner of the rug.

It looked exactly as if she had just sleepwalked her way out of bed for a glass of water.

She hadn't seen a thing.

Nothing had happened.

She returned to bed, sliding back under the cold covers.

The room was dead silent.

Yet her brain buzzed like a thousand machines roaring at once.

This room was no longer safe.

From this moment on, every word she spoke and every move she made in here could be part of an elaborate, staged performance.

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, casting a long, narrow strip of light across the floor.

Annelise woke up on time as usual, washed up, and put on a simple, elegant dress.

At the breakfast table, the atmosphere was as stifling as ever.

Barnum was reading the morning financial paper, Lizzie was absentmindedly stirring her oatmeal, and Clarissa was gently feeding Manuel scrambled eggs.

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