EPILOGUE
DON'T SAY A WORD

An excerpt from

CANDY STORE
By Sloane Bernstein for the North East Post

... In the end, we were left with only sugary, sweet death. It took a prison sentence to truly realize that I had been a child weaned on poison. And a child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort. But it still hurts to come to the realization that my own mother, the woman who brought me into this world, is a killer. A child killer, no less. Someone who fed me tranquilizers while shoving a ball of candy down a kid's throat in the same breath.

And while the trial ending provided the city and me with a small amount of comfort, I can still feel myself reflecting if it was all real. I had conquered many things: I finished this article. I'm no longer in contact with my mother. I helped save my step-brother. I'm sober. I'm in love for the first time in a very long time. But I can't help diminish all of that when I think back to how many people my mother hurt. And then, I wonder how many people I will hurt. "Filth teaches filth," after all. Do instincts like that trickle down through the gene pool? Will I also be plagued by my mother's sickness? I've already shown signs of her self-destruction and bitterness. I can't take any more similarities.

I have to trust that I'll stay true to my independence. I always have, which was one of the reasons why my mother hated me. But that quality has been rocked since I spent five long months living under the same roof as her. I mean, when you really think about it, was I so passionate about solving this case out of kindness, or is my mother's sickness finally sinking in? Lately, I like to convince myself that it's kindness. It's always kindness. That's what my dad would've wanted for me anyway.

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SLOANE BERNSTEIN disliked AA meetings, but she would do anything for Peter Parker.

She went to Alcoholics Anonymous at the local VFW every Friday morning. She liked going on Fridays; it helped her stay on path for the weekend. There were a few people she enjoyed seeing: Martin, a veteran turned bus driver, and Sally, a retired school teacher. They were good people, the first two people that welcomed her when she arrived for her first meeting. "What's a young girl like you doing here?" Sally asked. "Volunteer?"

"Alcoholic," Sloane had answered, "since I was fifteen."

She didn't want to go to these at first. Sloane had been adamant that she could solve her problem all on her own, but she'd also been telling herself that for years. Maybe it was time for the professionals to do their work. She even had a sponsor – and you're not going to believe this – it was Flash Thompson. Someone who had become a stranger was now a person she couldn't imagine not trusting. At first, when she saw he was an AA volunteer, she was embarrassed and considered walking out. But it was Flash who urged her to stay, who wanted her to commit to this new journey with his help. It was Flash who she had to call sometimes on bad nights, with Peter at her side rubbing her back. It was Flash who got her to a good point in life, where she could stand on her own two feet.

Sloane has now been sober for 146 days.

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Peter Parker didn't care for sharing, but he would dispel that sentiment for Sloane Bernstein.

They decided to move in together. It took about a month of back and forth, but they finally found a quaint apartment in Queens that could fit them both. And yes, Sloane was finally living in Queens again, after all these years. Peter's love for the city somehow reignited her own love, when she was so sure the spark had faded. Being in this place for so long reminded her of all the good times: the spots she would visit with her dad, the times her mother would shut down a party to find her, the holiday dinners that didn't end in screaming matches. She even attended synagogue again with Peter sitting right beside her.

It took a lot out of her, both mentally and physically, to pack up her whole life in Vermont to move back to where she grew up, where so many bad memories lay. But Sloane was excited for once in her life. This was a new chapter in her book. And she also made sure to pack everything: the dying space heater for the winter, her favorite plates that she picked up at a flea market when she was 21, and maybe even the vibrators she used to keep next to the vodka bottle in her nightstand. Peter liked to use them on her. Often.

Jerry, of course, didn't take long to adjust to his new home. He might've enjoyed Queens more than Vermont, his home state. Sloane was pretty sure her cat liked Peter more than her now. He tended to sleep on Peter's side of the bed more than hers, and would only accept chin rubs from him.

Sloane still worked for the Post, just virtually from the kitchen island. Peter would often come home to see her still furiously typing, back hunched so forward that he was surprised she didn't have back issues. Or sometimes he would wake up in the dead of night and see her sitting in the vintage love seat from his Aunt May by the window, her entire face lit up by the bright screen. He loved how passionate she was about writing; he loved the little pinch in between her eyebrows that would form when she was really concentrated on something. He loved everything about her.

Eventually, Peter met her dad – well, more like her dad's gravestone, but it still counted. Sloane was sure that, like Jerry, her dad would've probably liked Peter more than her too. One day out of the month, they visited his grave and planted new flowers. During the winter, they would plant her mother's favorite Snowdrops. His plot looked brand new again, as if it hadn't been touched by years of rot and loneliness.

━━━━━━

A month after Sabrina was taken into custody, Sloane finished her article. When she sent it to Bobby, he called her immediately after he finished, telling her it was her best yet. They edited it together, cried about it together. Sloane couldn't believe she'd finally finished it. It didn't feel real when she saw it on the homepage of the North East Post. Candy Store by Sloane Bernstein went viral on Twitter; it was being talked about on the news; even the New York Times wrote a piece about her piece. The attention became unreal.

And as for Spider-Man ... he was definitely crime-fighting a lot more now that he could afford a new suit. No more loose threads or carrying around that ragged backpack. He was back on top in New York City.

When it came time to submit the article to the Ring Foundation, Sloane and Bobby wanted to do it together. They gathered in Bobby's living room in Vermont with Sloane's old laptop. She attached the Word document to the form and looked over at her editor, her friend. Taking his hand in hers, she hovered both their fingers over the SUBMIT button.

"Let me take a picture first!" His wife exclaimed, pulling out her phone. "Everyone get together."

Bobby gestured to Peter, who was standing in the corner with a huge smile on his face. "You too, kid. But put the mask on. The Tweeters gonna love that, Sloane."

Sloane laughed as Peter tugged on his mask and stood behind the two. Bobby and Sloane smiled at the camera, while Peter placed a hand on her shoulder softly. And Bobby had been right – once Sloane had posted the photo online, it did go viral. Her new followers couldn't believe that all three were in a room together. But there were some that managed to overanalyze the photo, that saw the way Spider-Man was touching her gently, as if she were a baby bird that needed protection. Sloane had never put any dirty details of what she'd done with him, but people weren't stupid. They knew how to put two and two together.

Candy Store earned that Selden Ring nomination, but she didn't win. Sloane wondered if it was simply for the press or the fact that everyone and anyone was talking about it. The article about human rights in Spain was definitely more thought-provoking than her little article about her mother being a full-blown serial killer, but it still hurt nonetheless. At the awards ceremony in New York, she still congratulated the author, even when he called her piece "viral, but not timeless."

Although she didn't win the award, Sloane liked to think she won in other ways. She got a major raise at the Post and was promoted to co-editor with Bobby. She was entrusted as Everett's guardian – at least when he needed one – which made her feel a lot better about his safety after the incident. He really didn't have anybody anymore. When Sabrina was sentenced, Frank stopped being a good father to Everett – not like he was amazing in the first place. As it neared the time to pick a college, Everett waited until the last second and picked a school as far away from New York as possible.

He committed to Arizona State University, and with him being completely out of his hair, Frank forked up all the cash for his son's tuition. He really decided on a place on the other side of the country, far away from his father and stepmother, and Sloane didn't blame him. With everything he was put through, she would've done the same. In fact, she had done the same and she was a better person for it.

Frank must've put a good word in with the housing office because Everett was somehow gifted a single dorm for the year. Sloane and Peter were amazed at all the space. They volunteered to help Everett move in since nobody else offered, and although Everett was hesitant, he knew he needed the extra hands. They were able to fit everything in a little U-Haul and drove it across the country, stopping along the way to see fun monuments or museums. Everett said it was the perfect summer before the start of college.

They had just about finished bringing up everything by the time the sun started to set on Move-In Day. Everett was already making friends with his neighbors down the hall, and Peter was bragging about Sloane's article to the RA that clearly didn't care. Sloane threw one of the last few boxes at her feet and open the top flaps. Everett had labeled it, NIGHTSTAND, in black Sharpie.

She dragged the box over to the wooden nightstand he had brought from the penthouse. They placed it right beside his dorm bed – which he had said looked "as cheap as something from IKEA." Sloane opened up the first drawer and began digging through the box. She placed his chargers in the drawer, his Nintendo Switch, his vintage Game Boy Advance. He even owned a little box where he organized his handheld games by console. Sloane found a few rum nips at the bottom of the box, and although the responsible person in her knew it was wrong, she stored them in the back of his second drawer. He'd find them when he needed them.

Just when Sloane thought she unpacked everything, she almost missed a small object at the bottom. She bent down and picked it up, inspecting it in the dim light of the dorm. It was a box for Jawbreaker candy, the kind you'd see beside a check-out counter. Strange that he had this. Did he even like this kind of candy?

Her stomach growled. Surely, Everett wouldn't notice if she had one ... and it would taste like her childhood too.

Sloane flipped the lid open and plucked one from the pile. That was when she saw it.

Dark steel dotted with red. Hidden underneath the heap of candy.

She found the handle beneath the pile and pulled out the weapon. Just what she'd thought. A sledgehammer, coated with dried blood that someone couldn't clean off. The same one she'd seen the night that dark figure chased her. Same size, same blade angle.

The murder weapon had never been a gardener's mallet. It was a fucking sledgehammer that anyone could've bought at a Home Depot.

"A nightstand is a man's personal space," Bobby once said. How right he'd been.

Sloane couldn't stop staring at it. This was the murder weapon. In her hands. Hidden in a box of Jawbreakers, for Christ's sake. Naomi's blood could still be on this. Or Mary Ann's. Or Isabella Woods'. Her mother had been innocent. It had always been –

"Sloane."

She dropped the weapon on the floor as soon as her eyes connected with Everett's in the doorway. Neither of them said a word. Sloane's stare was wide, still in disbelief, but Everett was as cool as a cucumber. As if he had planned for this, as if he had wanted her to know it was him all along. There was something sick about the way he had zero expression; it made her gut twist.

"Don't say a word. Please," Everett whispered.

Sloane couldn't even think of a response. Her mouth wobbled with unease.

"Sloane?" Peter called from down the hall. "Everything okay in there?"

Swallowing hard, she bent down and slowly placed the weapon back in the box. She moved the Jawbreakers around, making sure it was well hidden, and stuffed the box inside Everett's nightstand. He watched her inquisitively, but also meticulously with narrowed eyes.

"We're fine," Sloane shouted back to Peter, standing up to meet her stepbrother's gaze. "Just peachy."

THE END