CHAPTER 22
AT THE BOTTOM OF A BOTTLE

SLOANE WENT TO bed stressed, and then woke even more stressed.

Memories plagued her nightmares. Being around so much death – all the blood and grief and terror – it was started to bring back memories she buried so deep that digging them up felt like physical torture. Her mind conjured them, reminding her of days that were shoved down with a swig of a bottle.

She was reminded of her dad.

Of the days before her dad died. Of the day he had his heart attack. Of the days after that, drowned out by the vodka Flash gifted her.

Over and over again, she dreamt of that day she found him, unable to shake it from her dreams. It had been a Tuesday afternoon. Her mother had been working late recently, but her father came home from his photography studio at 3 PM on the dot every day. Sloane got home at 4:35 after school. Cheer practice was a bitch. When she unlocked the door and dropped her house keys in a dish, she noticed the house was eerily quiet. All she could hear was the wind settling the triple-decker home. Pulling the cheer ribbon from her hair, Sloane ran her hands through the golden brown strands and began walking through the house. "Hello?" She called out. "Dad, you home?"

That was when she found him.

Stepping through the doorway to the kitchen, Sloane gasped at the sight of her father laying on the linoleum flooring, one hand flat against his chest. His eyes were glazed over, no life left in them. Sloane dropped her backpack on the floor and ran to his side. She screamed his name, checked for a pulse. She did those chest compressions they taught her in health class this year. But nothing was working. His heart wasn't beating. But she was still calling out his name as if he could hear her. She cried and cried and cried. The tears wouldn't stop as she laid her head on his still chest. She didn't even find the ability to call 9-1-1 until ten minutes later, when her words were finally coherent.

The paramedics said her dad suffered a heart attack. His strange mannerisms lately began to make sense now – the chest pain, the shortness of breath, nausea. Sabrina could've prevented it. Sloane could've prevented it, but she didn't. And now his death was going to weigh on her for eternity. Because she attributed to killing him. She was a killer –

Sloane woke up for the fifth time that night and checked the clock. It was 6 AM. The sun was finally rising. So instead of going back to sleep and suffering through more nightmares, she rubbed at her eyes and sat up. She grabbed the vodka underneath her bed, took a big swig, and swallowed away the nightmares that threatened to creep up again.

But even alcohol couldn't keep the bad things away. Sloane scrolled through her phone, even did a little writing as the hours dragged on, and yet ... her thoughts remained on her dad. She thought back to Saturday morning synagogue, the pastrami and Swiss subs they used to share on a Sunday afternoon, the photos he would take of their family during their quarterly trips to Central Park. Sloane rubbed at her head and took another swig from the Smirnoff bottle resting in between her legs. She had wanted to just be done with it; distract herself from everything related to her dad. But being in Queens was only making it worse.

Sloane didn't hesitate to get out of her bed then and put on a fresh pair of clothes. It was suddenly 3 PM now, and she had gotten quite a bit of writing done. More than usual, at least. But her brain was in a fog, and her movements felt slow. Somehow though, her body knew exactly what she wanted to do, even if she hadn't thought about it yet. Sloane put on an old college sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, her favorite pair of sneakers, a hat, and then her parka. She didn't think about even taking her purse. She just took her phone and left. Besides Everett getting home from school, the penthouse was empty, which made leaving easier. (She was surprised he was even going to school in the first place, what with his girlfriend dying and all. He hardly had time to grieve.)

She walked past the skatepark and Watson Liqueurs. She didn't stop at City Brew. Sloane just kept walking and walking, hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. She passed by afternoon joggers, dozens of homeless men and women lining the streets, executive assistants hastily grabbing late-day coffee for their boss. None of them deterred her path. She kept her stride for an hour, stopping off at a stand for a hot dog, before continuing for another hour. It felt like only minutes had gone by though, and she wasn't out of breath or wishing it was over. Her feet burned, but she enjoyed it. Sloane walked straight until she finally arrived at the Everhill Cemetery in Middle Village, and then took a hard right through the rusted gates.

The snow on the edges of the pavement had turned into the gross slush that every New Yorker hated. Icicles hung from the creepy branches of the dead evergreen trees around her. The lilac bushes that frequented Middle Village were covered in a blanket of ice, withered to nothing. Visiting the cemetery in the winter was almost poetic: everything and everyone was dead.

As she walked past the various gravestones, she began noticing that the Jawbreaker defacers had gotten to this part of Queens too. Every time she looked at a new grave, it was painted with graffiti. Sloane's breath caught in her throat, and she started running. She took a left down the long stretch of pavement, and then a right, before she came to a halt in front of a grave.

The upright headstone had an oval top and looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a while. The flowers that had been left there must've been extremely old, because there was nothing left of them but shriveled-up stems. Engraved in the light grey granite was:

JAMES MICHAEL BERNSTEIN
APRIL 1, 1968 – SEPTEMBER 20, 2011
BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS

But Sloane wasn't focusing on the beautiful inscription written so long ago, or the chipped corner at the top. Because like the others around him, her dad's tombstone had FEAR THE JAWBREAKER spray painted in dark red paint on the front.

Sloane sank to her knees on the soaking wet dirt. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she tried rubbing the spray paint off with her coat's sleeve. She knew it was useless, but she did it anyway. Frustrated, she rubbed harder. The words remained plastered to the granite surface. Sloane released a loud groan and gave up, wiping at the corners of her eyes. The tears wouldn't cease though, and before she could stop herself, she was in complete hysterics.

"I miss you so much, Dad," she cried, sniffling. "Being here again has made me miss you more than usual. And now, look what someone did to your fucking tombstone ..." She reached out, tried rubbing at the paint with her thumb, but all it left was a red stain on her fingertip. "I don't know if I can do this anymore. There's so much death here and I feel like it's coming for me and I keep thinking about that Tuesday afternoon where you were lying on the ground –"

Sloane stopped herself and wiped at the bottom of her runny nose. "I love you so much, Dad, but I don't want what happened to you to happen to me. I don't want to die so young with so much life left to live. Even if dying meant I could see you again. I can't –" Her voice broke slightly.

She sighed heavily, gathering herself. "You know, I don't really think I ever came to terms with your death. The day after you died, I left my grief at the bottom of a Tito's bottle. As soon as the paramedics came and took your body away, I didn't ... let myself grieve. It was all too much to handle and I remember I had a date planned that night and a test the next day and I – I just ... shut down.

"I visited your grave each holiday, and on your birthday, when I was a teenager. But I still didn't want to believe it was real. I remember the only way I was able to make myself visit was if I came half in the bag, and the alcohol always gave me hope that this was temporary, that someday you would come home and say it was all a prank. Remember all the pranks we used to play on Mom?" Sloane chuckled to herself, but the laughter died down once she took in the gravestone again, the graffiti painted on the surface. Her bottom lip wobbled. "I haven't been here since I moved to Vermont, and I'm sorry. But I think this is the first time I can feel that you're really gone, Dad. And that's both sad and somewhat comforting."

Sloane looked away and eyed the melted snow dripping from a nearby tree branch. The sun began to set behind the headstone. She sniffled again. "I just don't know what to do right now. But if I give up now and leave here then there are just gonna be a dozen more girls being buried in this cemetery beside you, and that's not fair. It's not right. If the police aren't going to do enough to stop this murderer, then why should I give up? If no one will help these girls, why should I be given the luxury of quitting?"

She closed her mouth suddenly, knowing what she had to do. A cold breeze lifted her hair off her shoulders, and Sloane thought that was her dad agreeing with her answer. Getting to her feet, she looked down at her father's grave one last time, one corner of her lips lifting. She grabbed the old, wilted bouquet that had been left there many years ago and threw it in a nearby, over-stuffed trash can. When she returned, Sloane slid the hat off her head and placed it upright against the headstone.

"Bye, Dad," she said. "Love you more."

And as she walked out of the cemetery, hailing a cab for Forest Hills, she could've sworn she heard her dad's voice in the wind saying, Love you most.

━━━━━━

Sloane tried not to think about how sloppy she looked as the taxi pulled up to the familiar brick apartment building. It didn't matter how she looked. She had a mission: she was going to tell Peter that she didn't want to delay this case anymore – something needed to be done. And Spider-Man was going to put more effort in, whether he liked it or not. They all were. If the police were going to fuck off while innocent teenage girls were dying, then it was up to her team to find the killer. And maybe it'd earn her a Seldon award in the process.

She wouldn't let anyone else end up six feet under like her dad.

After paying the driver, Sloane made haste and sprinted to the door. She rang the buzzer a few times but received no answer. It was five-thirty on a Monday. Surely, he'd be home from work at this time. There was a small snowstorm coming too – wouldn't his work send him home a little early? She buzzed again. Nothing. This was getting ridiculous.

Sloane plucked a stray bobby pin in her coat pocket and began to pick the lock. It was actually Bobby's wife that had taught her this years ago. Just a few minutes later, the lock clicked and Sloane walked inside.

She ran up the stairs. Her feet were still burning from the two-hour walk to the cemetery, but she couldn't care less. She found Apartment 3F and dusted her sneakers on the Star Wars welcome mat. Clearing her throat, she shouted, "Peter? You there?" She then pounded her fist on the door several times.

She was about to call his name again when she heard his voice inside: "Uh – Sloane? What are you –"

"Why did you not answer when I buzzed your door?" She asked, a hard edge to her tone.

"I'm – um – a little busy here –"

"This is fucking important!" Sloane turned the door knob. It was unlocked. "I'm coming in, Peter. It's serious."

"NO, SLOANE, I –"

She was not prepared for what was on the other side.

As Sloane shoved the door open with her shoulder, she looked up and stopped short. In the doorway of his bedroom, Peter Parker stood with tousled dark brown hair, facial scruff to match, and tired eyes. He wore holey socks and grey sweatpants that hung a bit too low on his hips. But it was what he was wearing on his torso that left her stunned.

She recognized that red and blue spandex design. The silicone gripping and loose threads on his gloves. That spider symbol. And to top it off, he had that bug-eyed mask in his hands. The one she lifted to kiss him. The one she fantasized about.

Her voice was strangled when she said: "You're ... Spider-Man?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: left you guys on the best cliffhanger ever. oops 🤭 PREPARE YOURSELVES FOR CHAPTER 23!!!!!!!