There were three things that were typically heard when walking near the sheriff's private office: files rustling, the flick of a lighter, and the sound of whiskey being poured. Emery wasn't supposed to drink on the job – she knew that better than anyone – but when it got this late, she couldn't bear to go to the bar and pretend that she was fine. Her office felt safer than her home.

You hear her grunt when you knock on the door. You're one of Emery's subordinates – a good, well-rounded deputy, one out of six others – and her downward spiral was worrying you.

"Who is it?" she snaps, but her expression softens when she sees you open the door. "O-Oh, it's you. Sorry."