Flowers of Darkness Tatiana Rosnay (chromebook ebook reader TXT) 📖

the queue, she buried her face in her hands. For God’s sake, what was happening to her? Making such a scene, lying through her teeth. What had she tumbled into? She thought back to all the times people had told her, with a zest of humor, that she’d been repeating herself, or that she’d forgotten to do something. She remembered the numerous occasions she’d heard the sentence, at moments with a touch of irony, Your imagination is getting away with you. She recalled her mother’s slow decline, and how Solange had started to forget who she was long before she reached Clarissa’s present age. What if Jordan was right? What if she really was losing her grip?

She longed to call Andy, the only person who understood her, who could reassure her. But she didn’t dare challenge Jordan’s authority.

While the train made its way to France, a message from Mia White showed up on her mobile. Hello, Clarissa! How are you? I hope the heat wave wasn’t too much of an ordeal. Do let me know how you are. See you soon, Mia.

Mia White! The mere name incensed her. Indeed, that phony Mia White had duped her, with her fake social media feed, starstruck gaze, and sham smile. She doubtless knew exactly where Clarissa was, what she was doing right now. Clarissa’s mobile was probably geolocated. Mia White was working full throttle behind her screens, tracking every single move, reporting back to Dr. Dewinter: Clarissa Katsef went to London to see her father. She’s on the StarExpress getting in at Gare du Nord at 20:08.

She obliterated the text angrily without responding to it.

When she arrived at the residence a few hours later, she rode the elevator up, incapable of mounting the eight flights. The apartment seemed more silent and intimidating than usual. She put her bag down in the entry. Should she tell Adelka she was back, go fetch the cat?

She found herself unable to move forward, as if her entire body was on alert. There was a lump in her throat; a feeling of dread and queasiness taking over. She locked herself up in the toilet, her only refuge. She stayed there, standing up, for a long time, until she felt her heartbeat slow down.

She kept dwelling on Jordan’s words. That’s all in your head, Mums. This is a depression. Was the breakup with François, the shock of his betrayal, truly the trigger to her turmoil? Was her son’s name whispered in the night all a dream? Or worse still, was that her own voice, and not Elise Delaporte’s?

She understood, clearly, while she was still secluded, that she could not stay a single minute more in this apartment. It was all over.

Flee. Skedaddle. Everything she needed was in her travel bag, the one she had prepared this morning for London. There were no belongings here that meant anything to her.

Escape. Scram. The cat was with Adelka.

She knew where to go. It was obvious. She’d go there.

Now. Bolt, right now.

She came out of the confined space, bracing against the uneasiness that gripped her. She loathed this place. How had she ever agreed to settle down here? How had she lasted two months? At what cost?

She took her mobile from her bag and placed it on the kitchen table. She headed toward the front door, put her hand on the doorknob to pull it open. It seemed blocked. She placed her index finger on the glass square to unlock it.

Nothing happened. She tried again.

The door remained shut.

“Open the door!” she said firmly.

A sentence showed up on the control panel.

You forgot your mobile phone in the kitchen.

She nearly spat out “What’s my bloody phone got to do with you?”

She forced herself to sound neutral.

“I’m just going down to see a neighbor. I don’t need my mobile. Open up.”

Had “they” guessed she was going to run for her life? Were “they” going to keep her here against her will? What would she do if that were the case?

That barred door. She gave it a shove. Nothing happened.

“Open this door!” she yelled.

Please put your index finger on the glass square.

She did as she was told. Her hand felt unsteady. She was going to go absolutely mad if she wasn’t able to get out of here.

Still nothing. She whacked the bottom of the door with a bad-tempered kick.

“Open!”

This time, she let out a yell of rage. “They” were doing this on purpose, right? “They” were pushing her to her limits, as usual, so as to test her reactions, so as to use them? She itched to stamp her feet, like a child. She couldn’t stand it any longer. Total despondency took over.

“Please open the door,” she muttered, her forehead stuck to the wooden paneling. “Please, I beg you.”

With a click, the door opened. Clarissa yearned to make an extravagant gesture of victory. Not in front of the camera. She was leaving. Leaving! She’d notify Adelka later. She fished around her bag, pulled out a scarf, wrapped it around her head. She felt lighter and lighter as she flew down the steps.

Down in the lobby, the main egress swung open.

The mechanical voice announced, “Good-bye. The C.A.S.A. residence looks forward to seeing you again.”

She felt like singing at the top her lungs: You bet! You’re not going to be seeing me for a while! You’re no longer going to watch every step I take. You won’t tarnish my dreams, filch my ideas, play with my moods, sprinkle fairy dust in my tea. Ciao! Auf Wiedersehen! Adios!

She rushed to the nearest Métro station. She felt quite naked without her mobile phone. For the past thirty-five years, she calculated, she’d always had one with her, a reassuring, everyday item that was part of her everyday life. Her panic-stricken feeling was laced with liberty. She was free. Free! No one could find her. Later, when “they” had examined the surveillance videos, it would become clear the hasty person leaving the premises, whose face was covered by a scarf, was indeed Clarissa.