Chapter 6: The Box of Teeth

Part I: 6:00 AM Portland in the Rain

The city rose out of the mist like a half-remembered dream.

I had not been to Portland in fifteen years. The last time, I had driven east with a suitcase and a broken heart, leaving Mara standing on a curb, her red hair wet with rain, her hands wrapped around a coffee cup that had long gone cold. I had told myself I would never come back.

But the key was warm in my pocket, and Nia was asleep in the back seat, and Sarah was awake beside me, her face pressed against the window, watching the unfamiliar streets scroll past.

“It’s green,” Sarah said. “Like, really green. I didn’t know cities could be this green.”

“Portland is a city that pretends to be a forest. It’s been lying to itself for a hundred years.”

“You sound like you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it. I hate what I left here.” I turned onto a narrow street lined with old Victorians, their paint peeling, their porches sagging. “But that was a long time ago. Before you were born. Before the Hearth. Before any of this.”

“Before you became who you are.”

“Before I decided who I wanted to be.”

The house was at the end of the street, set back from the road behind a tangle of blackberry bushes. It was smaller than I remembered, three stories, gray clapboard, a porch swing that swayed in the damp morning breeze. The windows were dark. The mailbox was full.

“Mara’s house,” I said.

“Does anyone live here now?”

“Kaelin did. Before she went to Ashland. Before she started working for Prynne.” I parked the SUV at the curb and killed the engine. “She said the house has been empty since Mara died. No one wanted to live in a place where someone had taken so long to die.”

Sarah unbuckled her seatbelt. “How did she die?”

“Cancer. The same cancer that killed Corinne. The same cancer that’s killing Elara.” I looked at the house. The porch swing swayed. “Mara smoked. Two packs a day, even when she was cooking. She said the smoke kept her thin. She said the smoke kept her sharp.”

“Did it?”

“It kept her dead.” I opened the door and stepped out into the rain.

Part II: 6:30 AM The Key

The lock was old brass, tarnished, the kind of lock that hadn’t been made in fifty years. The key fits perfectly. It turned with a click that echoed through the empty house like a gunshot.

Inside, the air was cold and still. The furniture was draped in white sheets, like ghosts waiting for a seance. Dust motes floated in the grey light that filtered through the windows. The floorboards creaked under my bare feet.

I had worn shoes for the flight, boots, leather, practical, but I had taken them off in the car. The Protocol did not pause for Oregon. My skin against the cold wood was the only truth I had left.

“Mom,” Sarah said from behind me. “You’re bleeding.”

I looked down. A splinter of wood had embedded itself in the arch of my foot, a thin line of blood tracing down to the floor. I pulled it out with my fingernails and kept walking.

The box was in the basement.

I knew it before Kaelin had told me. I could feel it pulling me down the narrow staircase, past the washer and dryer, past the shelves of canned vegetables that Mara had preserved in better years, past the wine rack full of bottles that would never be opened.

The basement was finished, drywalled, carpeted, with a dehumidifier humming in the corner. It smelled of mildew and old paper. And in the center of the room, on a low table, sat a box.

It was made of dark wood mahogany, I thought, the same wood as the floors in my hallway. The grain was warm, almost alive, and the surface was polished to a high shine. A silver lock held the lid closed. And on the lid, carved into the wood, was a single word:

VIVIANNE

I knelt in front of the box. The key was in my hand. It was warm from my pocket, warm from my skin, warm from the journey across the country.

“Open it,” Sarah said.

I opened it.

Part III: 6:45 AM The Contents

Inside the box were four things.

The first was a letter, folded into thirds, sealed with wax that had cracked and crumbled. The paper was heavy, cream-colored, the kind of paper that cost more than most people’s rent. On the front, in Mara’s handwriting, I would have known it anywhere, the sharp slant of the letters, the way the ‘M’ curved like a blade was my name.

The second was a photograph. Mara and I are standing outside The Ladder on opening night. We were young. We were thin. We were wearing white chef’s coats and stupid paper hats that Mara had insisted on because she thought they looked “authentic.” My arm was around her waist. Her head was on my shoulder. We were smiling.

The third was a stack of documents, hundreds of pages, bound with a rubber band. The top page read: NEXUS: PHASE ONE INVESTOR SUMMARY (CONFIDENTIAL).

The fourth was a silk neckband.

Teal. The same deep teal as the neckbands in the Hearth. The same weave. The same microchip is embedded in the fabric. But this one was different. This one had a name embroidered on the inside, in gold thread, in Mara’s handwriting:

MARA #0

I picked up the neckband. The silk was soft against my fingers, worn thin from years of handling. Mara had never worn it. The Protocol didn’t exist when we were together, but she had kept it. She had kept it close, in a box with my name on it, in a basement where no one would find it.