The Flower That Grew from Ashes novel Chapter 51

The cold lenses of the binoculars pressed tightly against Annelise's eye sockets.

In the second-floor window of the private sanctuary, the silhouette's movements grew increasingly frantic.

He yanked open the drawers beneath the altar and rummaged through the shelves along the east wall, the sound of violently flipped pages seeming to pierce the silent courtyard and reach her ears.

Annelise's heart drummed against her ribs.

This wasn’t a search for anything specific; it looked more like an agitated, aimless venting of rage.

The figure turned, and for a split second, the moonlight illuminated his profile.

It was Barnum Lehman.

He wasn't wearing his usual immaculate suits or his silk lounging robe; instead, he was clad in a loose, rumpled bathrobe, his hair disheveled, and his perpetually calculating face now stripped down to a look of near-collapsing exhaustion and bewilderment.

He paced like an aging lion trapped in a cage, agitatedly searching his own territory for an exit that didn't exist.

Annelise slowly lowered the binoculars.

She recalled Barnum's momentary lapse in composure yesterday afternoon after Felix had whispered in his ear in the tea room.

Something must have happened.

Something monumental enough to completely rattle an old fox like Barnum Lehman.

That night, Annelise kept her eyes open until the pitch-black sky faded into a pale gray.

At six-thirty in the morning, Harriet brought in a glass of warm water, only to find Annelise already fully dressed and sitting quietly by the window.

"Ms. Sargent, did you not sleep all night?" Harriet’s voice was full of heartache.

"I couldn't," Annelise shook her head and took the glass.

Her voice was steady—too steady for someone who had been awake all night.

At breakfast, the atmosphere at the dining table was terribly oppressive.

Barnum was nowhere to be seen.

Heavy, dark circles bruised the skin under Lizzie’s eyes, and the hand holding her soup spoon trembled slightly; last night's nightmares had clearly drained her.

Clarissa sat beside her, thoughtfully serving Lizzie food, her face a mask of gentle concern as always, while a barely perceptible glint of smugness hid in the depths of her eyes.

As breakfast neared its end, Harriet hurried in from outside, leaned close to Annelise's ear, and lowered her voice.

"Ms. Sargent, the driver just pulled the car out. He said Mrs. Lehman is going to the Southside Psychiatric Rehab Center. Zahra is accompanying her, and they probably won't be back until noon."

Her regular bi-weekly appointment.

Barnum had also tried to open this cabinet last night.

Annelise’s heart skipped a beat.

From her pocket, she pulled out a plain black bobby pin.

She had found it in her jewelry box the day before.

She remembered her college days when Vivian Lincoln, holding a beer in one hand and a bobby pin in the other, enthusiastically showed off her skills.

"See this, Anne? This is what you call a life skill! If that bastard Hackett Lehman ever locks you up, this will be your saving grace!"

At the time, she'd only thought of it as a joke between friends, laughing and calling Vivian a jinx.

She never expected that offhand remark to become her reality.

Annelise straightened the bobby pin and carefully probed one end into the keyhole.

Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she tried her best to recall the techniques Vivian had taught her.

The cold metal made faint, teeth-setting scrapes inside the lock cylinder.

Fine beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and her fingers grew numb from the intense pressure.