CHAPTER 1
THE FLASK

AUTUMN IN VERMONT was a sight for sore eyes. Most people wouldn't understand the simplicity of the first November snow, the soggy leaves floating in puddles, dragging out the crackling space heater that you should've thrown out years ago. It was a time for coziness and spiked apple cider, and those pumpkin martini drinks with the cinnamon sugar rim –

Sloane hummed at the thought of it.

She was one of those crazy people who didn't mind getting up at the ass crack of dawn. Watching the sunrise with a cup of coffee in her hands was one of life's greatest pleasures. And beside that mug was a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal and the half-finished bottle of Smirnoff she somehow didn't down last night. Not many realized just how beneficial a shot of vodka was in the morning, but Sloane Bernstein did. She'd pat herself on the back if one hand wasn't holding the Smirnoff and the other grasped an old shot glass.

Her apartment was small, but decent, located just off the beaten path in the teensy, tiny town of Dover. She liked it because the silence wasn't deafening, and she got to keep her little Christmas tree up all year round, and there wasn't anyone to criticize any of her life choices. Oh, and of course, for the pleasant view of autumn in Vermont. She lived in the one-bedroom with her orange tabby cat, Jerry. He was named after Jerry Garcia, her dad's favorite guitarist.

That Monday morning was brisk, but Sloane liked Mondays. She enjoyed starting off the week with two shots in the morning, not just one, before pulling on a chunky, black turtleneck and olive-green corduroy pants. Her light brown hair was left in slightly-greasy strands, just about reaching the middle of her chest, and she was lucky that she had the energy to comb it back into a ponytail. Even though her vision already felt blurry, she drove to work with a lazy smile and an ambitious attitude. A rain shower passed through as she drove down the winding path, finally coming up on one of the few streetlights in town. It took a special kind of person to really appreciate the simplicity of a town like Dover. Sloane was born in Queens, New York to a pathetic excuse of a mother and a father who died too young. She was used to hustle and bustle. But Dover was the exact opposite, and that's what she loved about it. As soon as she became of age, Sloane made sure to get out of the huge shithole that was Queens in favor of Vermont.

She pulled into the parking lot for her work building, almost colliding with another car in the process. But the most important thing was she swerved, so that counted as a win in her book. Sloane had never been in a car accident, but she'd been in a lot of potential car accidents. She liked to think of herself as a drunk who knew how to swerve. She wasn't like other drunks.

Sloane parked like an asshole and pulled the hood of her raincoat over her head, running to the front door of the building. She worked for the widely popular New England news site, the North East Post, as the head crime reporter, which was conveniently located a town over from Dover. As soon as she stepped into the lobby, Sloane headed for the bathroom and locked herself in a stall. Pulling her trusty flask from her purse, she took a swig of vodka for good luck and exhaled loudly. When she walked out, she greeted the secretary as if she was completely sober.

Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to keep the flask in her purse, where just about anyone could find out she was drinking on the job. But Sloane had been more stressed than usual lately. She received her promotion almost a year to the day and now had to lead other journalists, on top of writing at least five articles a week too. She would never complain though. Sloane loved working, loved her job, and she would stay at the office until every last person left. No matter what people thought of her, they couldn't deny she was a hard worker.

But, again, she was stressed. And if she needed to go to the bathroom every once in a while to take a swig from her flask, then so be it.

Sloane plopped into her chair and turned on her computer. The clock had just struck eight AM and she was the first one from her team to arrive, per usual. Her head already felt like it was swimming. Her stomach was bubbling with alcohol and the gross oatmeal she had this morning. She rubbed her head, beginning to look over the edits of her new team member's first article. It was so hard to concentrate though. She blinked several times, trying to focus her vision. Was taking another swig worth it?

"Bernstein."

Sloane looked over her cubicle wall and found Bobby lingering by his office door, the lines around his frown creasing. Bobby Reyes was Sloane's boss at the Post, a.k.a. the head editor, something she could only dream to be. Over the years, he'd become a close confidant. Sloane had become extremely distant from her family – both emotionally and physically – once she moved out, and after a couple years of schooling and starting up at the Post, she quickly began to value Bobby's work ethic and his drive for her to become the great journalist she was born to be. They liked to go out every Thursday and his wife would constantly invite her over for dinner. They enjoyed reading crime thrillers together in their very own personal book club. Now, at age twenty-six, he was somewhat of a father figure to her, and she cared for him like a daughter would.

"Can I talk to you?" He asked, gesturing for her to follow him with his hand.

"Sure," she replied. His tone sounded so serious. Bobby was a serious guy, but ... something was off. It was probably a case of the Mondays. She pushed her chair in and followed him inside his office, walking in a perfectly straight line. She could fool a police officer with this routine. It was amazing that she never had a breathalyzer test once in her life.

"You got in early," Sloane commented as she sat in the cushioned chair in front of his desk. "Usually, I'm meeting you at the door."

"Had a lot on my mind, and my alarm clock is broken, so Sheila had to be my alarm." He spun in his chair and revealed a tray with two hot coffees on it. "By the way, I brought you this."

Sloane accepted the coffee with a grin. She didn't even have to check if Bobby got it right – he knew she liked her coffee black. "You trying to butter me up for something?" She asked after taking a sip. "Another promotion?"

Bobby sighed. "No, unfortunately." He sipped his own coffee and drummed his fingers on the desk. "You really are a hard worker, you know that? And one of my best writers –"

"Bobby, you know I'm not good with accepting compliments."

"– Which is why I've been dreading this conversation," he finished. "Seriously, I'm not good with confrontation. If I have to fire someone, I usually have my assistant do it."

Sloane's palms started to get sweaty. "Wait, are you firing me?"

"No, no, I –" He looked up to the popcorn ceiling and sighed heavily. After a moment, he met her anxious stare again. "I'm just gonna come right out and say it. I know about the flask."

The office was silent. Sloane's eye twitched, either from the alcohol or her own nerves, as Bobby laced his hairy fingers together on top of the desk. His salt and pepper mustache twisted with discomfort.

"I understand the stress you're under, Bernstein. Really, I do. And I think you need a break," he confessed. "Maybe some time to get out of these woods."

After a moment, a grin spread on Sloane's lips. She thought he had to be kidding. "I would beg to differ."

"I'm being serious, Sloane. You can't be doing this. I won't have it."

Shit, she thought. Sloane furrowed her brow and replied earnestly, "I like working. Sure, maybe it's a little morbid to write about murders and psychopaths every day, but it's what I'm good at. You can't disagree with that, Bobby." She looked at her fidgeting hands. "I wouldn't know what to do if I wasn't here."

Bobby just blinked in her direction. He wasn't having her bullshit this morning. How was it possible that she could lie successfully to everyone but him?

Sloane lifted her hands up in surrender. "Okay, I'll stop bringing the flask. Straight vodka helps me get in the zone, but I'll stop. I don't need it." Lies. "Problem solved?"

"No, not at all." He glanced at the calendar hanging up on the wall beside his monitor. Every month had a picture of a grumpy dog accompanied with the days of the week. "Listen, it's the holiday season. Thanksgiving is in two weeks. Why don't I give you some paid time off and you can get out of town, visit your family."

She feigned a chuckle. That had to be a joke. Sloane had divulged in her family trauma over several nights of drinking with Bobby, and now he was suggesting she go back to see her belittling devil of a mother? No fucking way. Even worse, she'd finally have to meet her new stepfather and stepbrother. She shuddered at the thought.

"No," she replied, "that's not happening."

"Listen, I know your family sucks, but it could give you closure to see them again. Do I really have to force you to take a vacation?"

"Why are you even trying to force me to do anything?"

"Because I care about your health!" He smacked his hand against the desk. "Don't you see that there's something wrong with drinking a whole flask of vodka on the job?"

Sloane looked away and sunk a little in her seat. The cushion was starting to make her ass feel numb. But truthfully, everything felt numb these days.

Bobby sighed. "Alright, no vacation. What about an onsite reporting assignment then?"

Her brow raised, slightly intrigued.

He pulled up a manilla folder in the middle of the massive pile on his desk. The folder was thick, filled with clippings of various newspaper articles and photos from online. Sloane caught a glimpse of a picture depicting a corpse with the entire jaw broken and pieces of teeth completely ripped out. She swallowed down the vomit threatening to rise in her throat. She could just imagine what the blood smelled like, the hint of iron in the air. It made her entire stomach turn.

"Two girls were found murdered during the past couple of weeks in Queens with their jaws completely broken. Police think they were killed the same way and these are the acts of a new serial killer on the loose. They're calling him, or her, the Jawbreaker. No one can find much of anything." He threw the folder to the edge of his desk, and Sloane just about caught it before everything fell all over the floor. "But I bet you could, and then make a great article about it."

Sloane flipped through the clippings and took in the gory photos with her own eyes. She grimaced, examining the pictures of broken teeth and decaying skin. Her lip curled back in disgust.

"So, Queens," he began, rubbing at his mustache, "what's it like?"

She glanced up. "Um – well, it smells like garbage and horse shit. It's right on Long Island and just across from Manhatten. So you got your trash near the heart of the Big Apple. Pretty big population and everyone from there is rude."

"I can see where you got your charm," he snickered, and she sent him a glare.

"While this is definitely in my field of expertise –" Sloane smacked the folder closed. "– I don't want to go there. We have murders here, Bobby, so I don't see why I have to visit Queens. And our site is about New England-based news. New York isn't part of it."

Bobby shrugged. "Who cares? It could be an amazing article, written by an amazing, young writer who has ties to that part of the city. Nobody else is covering the story besides the local New York papers and this is big. Your article would make an impact because it's unique to you. People give a shit when they can tell you give a shit, Sloane." He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "And the Selden Ring Award in Investigative Journalism could be in your future if you submitted a piece like this."

She considered it in her head. Bobby knew she had been wanting a Selden Ring award since she graduated community college, or just an award in general. An award would stick it to her mother once and for all that her career went somewhere. Sloane didn't speak to her often, but when she did, all her mother did was nag on and on about how Sloane needed to find a new career path if she wasn't being recognized for her efforts. Which was rich coming from someone who became a housewife in the last decade. But even with an award on the line, was it truly worth it to go back to Queens and endure her wrath?

Eventually, Bobby heaved another sigh. "Fine, I'll give you a raise."

Her head perked up. "You wouldn't."

"I would," he quipped, "if you take on this assignment."

Sloane tapped her finger against the folder still in her lap. "What about the rest of the team?"

"Fuck the team. They'll be fine, and I'll be here if they need anything. They're not children."

"What about my cat? I can't bring him with me." She pointed a finger at him. "And don't say, 'Fuck the cat.' Jerry is very important."

"Okay, then I will take care of Jerry for you. Sheila loves cats. It wouldn't be an issue."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're making this too easy."

"Because I want you to listen to me. For once."

Sloane exhaled and stood from her seat. While leaning against the doorframe of his office, she looked back at him, studying his arched brow, his wrinkled forehead, the glasses constantly slipping down his nose. He really needed to take care of all that stubble on his face, and his gray hair was getting too long –

She was getting sidetracked.

Her fingers drummed against the frame, and she finally said, "You got yourself a deal, Reyes."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: and that's a wrap on chapter 1!!! as you can see, sloane is already as messy as you can be LMAO. I'm so excited to get more into this fic; I've already begun to prewrite so much! hope you guys are just as excited as I am 🥰🥰