I did not knock.

I used my spare key, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside.

The house was warm, smelling of cinnamon and expensive room spray.

I walked down the hallway toward the kitchen.

My mother was standing by the counter, holding a steaming mug of coffee.

She wore a silk robe, her hair already brushed and styled.

When she saw me standing there, dusty and carrying the heavy metal box, her face tightened.

“Maren,” she said, setting her mug down with a small clink. “What are you doing here?”

I set the metal box down on the polished white granite of her kitchen island.

The heavy iron base made a dull, scraping thud against the stone.

My mother flinched, her eyes darting from the dirt on my jacket to the rust flaking off the corners of the box.

“You’re tracking dirt onto the rug,” she said, her voice tight and high-pitched.

“We need to talk about Dorian,” I said.

She took a slow sip of her coffee, her manicured fingers pressing hard against the ceramic mug.