Chapter Text
Chapter One
June 10, 2016
Firehouse 51 — Chicago
Dylan Halstead had been on a bus for twenty-seven hours.
Twenty-seven hours of uncomfortable seats, stale air, aching muscles and trying not to think about what she’d left behind.
She’d barely slept.
She hadn’t eaten since she’d left Boston.
And she had exactly fifty cents in her pocket.
Two quarters.
That was everything.
Dylan stood across the street from Firehouse 51, staring at the red brick building.
She’d spent the last few hours convincing herself she could do this.
She wasn’t so sure anymore.
Her hand slipped beneath her battered leather jacket and touched the envelope tucked against her stomach.
Still there.
She pulled it out just enough to see the edge of the document inside.
Her birth certificate.
She’d stolen it weeks ago.
Not because she’d known exactly what she was going to do with it.
Just because she’d finally realized she needed something that proved she existed.
Something that proved who she belonged to.
Although, technically, Dylan wasn’t sure she belonged anywhere.
The certificate said:
Dylan Halstead.
Date of birth: May 19, 2000.
Mother: Jennifer Sheridan.
Father: Patrick Halstead.
Pat Halstead.
A man she’d never met.
A man she’d known only as a name.
Five hundred dollars arrived every month from him.
Her mother had always called it “support.”
Dylan had never known if that meant he knew she existed.
She’d never asked.
Jennifer wasn’t exactly the sort of mother you could ask questions.
Especially not when she was drinking.
But sometimes Jennifer talked.
And over the years, one name had appeared more than once.
Kelly Severide.
Dylan didn’t know much about him.
She knew he was her mother’s son.
She knew he lived in Chicago.
She knew he was a firefighter.
And she knew he worked at Firehouse 51.
That was enough.
At least, she hoped it was.
Dylan looked down at herself.
Long light-brown hair, tangled from the bus journey.
Piercing green eyes.
A black eye that was beginning to turn spectacular shades of purple and blue.
A split lip.
Ripped skinny jeans.
Checkered Vans.
Cropped T-shirt.
Old leather jacket.
Her backpack contained everything she had decided was important enough to take.
A sketchbook.
A few terrible pencils.
Two changes of clothes.
A hoodie.
And her battered copy of Haunting Adeline.
She hadn’t taken photographs.
She hadn’t taken jewellery.
She hadn’t taken anything sentimental.
There wasn’t much sentimental to take.
She’d just left.
After Tom had hit her again.
After she’d lain on the bathroom floor listening to her mother do absolutely nothing.
After she’d waited until both of them were passed out.
She’d taken the cash from Tom’s wallet.
Bought a bus ticket.
And gone.
Dylan took one last breath.
Then crossed the street.
⸻
The firehouse was busy.
Dylan stopped just inside the entrance.
She suddenly felt ridiculously small.
Five foot two.
Ninety pounds.
Sixteen years old.
And completely alone.
People moved around her.
She could hear voices coming from deeper inside the building.
Someone laughed.
A piece of equipment clattered.
Dylan nearly turned around.
Then a firefighter noticed her.
He stopped.
“Hey.”
Dylan looked at him.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“Yeah.”
His eyes went immediately to her black eye.
Then her split lip.
He didn’t look convinced.
“Can I help you?”
Dylan swallowed.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
She tightened her grip on the envelope.
“Kelly Severide.”
The firefighter looked toward the back of the firehouse.
“Severide?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s here.”
Dylan’s heart jumped.
“Can I talk to him?”
“Sure.”
He called out.
“Severide!”
Dylan’s stomach twisted.
Footsteps approached.
And then Kelly appeared.
Dylan had never seen him before.
Not in person.
But she’d seen photographs.
She knew immediately.
His hair was black, threaded with strands of grey.
His face was rougher than she’d expected.
There was something tired in his blue eyes.
Something familiar.
Dylan stared at him.
Kelly stared back.
His eyes moved over her face.
The black eye.
The split lip.
The bruising she hadn’t managed to hide.
His expression hardened.
“What’s going on?”
Dylan couldn’t speak.
Kelly looked at the firefighter beside him.
“Who is she?”
“She says she’s looking for you.”
Kelly looked back at Dylan.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
“Then why are you looking for me?”
Dylan’s fingers tightened around the envelope.
“My mom.”
Kelly frowned.
“Your mom?”
“She knows you.”
“Who is your mother?”
Dylan hesitated.
Then said quietly,
“Jennifer Sheridan.”
Kelly froze.
It was subtle.
But Dylan saw it.
The change in his face.
The way his shoulders stiffened.
His mother.
Kelly looked at her again.
“What’s your name?”
“Dylan.”
“Dylan what?”
She swallowed.
“Halstead.”
Kelly stared.
“Halstead?”
Dylan nodded.
“Yeah.”
He looked genuinely confused.
Dylan pulled the envelope from her jacket.
“I have something.”
She held it out.
Kelly took it.
He opened it.
His eyes moved across the page.
Then stopped.
Dylan Halstead.
His eyes dropped lower.
Mother: Jennifer Sheridan.
Kelly’s breathing changed.
Then he saw the father’s name.
Patrick Halstead.
Kelly looked at Dylan.
Then back at the paper.
Then at Dylan again.
“You’re Jennifer’s daughter.”
“Yeah.”
“Your father’s Pat Halstead.”
Dylan nodded.
“That’s what it says.”
Kelly’s mind raced.
Jennifer.
His mother.
Dylan.
A daughter he’d never known about.
And Pat Halstead.
A name he knew.
But not because Pat was his father.
He wasn’t.
Kelly’s father was Benny.
This girl was connected to him through Jennifer.
But somehow she was also connected to the Halsteads through Pat.
Kelly looked at Dylan again.
“Does your mother know you’re here?”
“No.”
“Does she know you came to Chicago?”
“No.”
“Does Pat know about you?”
Dylan shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No.”
Kelly looked down at the birth certificate.
Sixteen years old.
His sister.
Jennifer had never told him.
Not once.
Kelly folded the paper carefully.
“Why did you come here?”
Dylan’s eyes dropped to the floor.
“Because I wanted to find you.”
Kelly’s expression softened.
“Why?”
“Because you’re the only person I know.”
That hit him.
Kelly looked at her properly now.
Not just at the bruises.
Not just at the clothes.
At the girl.
Sixteen years old.
Alone in Chicago.
With a backpack.
And fifty cents.
“When did you leave Boston?”
“Yesterday.”
“You came straight here?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Bus.”
“How long?”
“Twenty-seven hours.”
Kelly stared at her.
“When did you last eat?”
Dylan shrugged.
“Before I left.”
Kelly’s jaw tightened.
“You’re telling me you haven’t eaten in twenty-seven hours?”
“I’m okay.”
“No.”
His voice wasn’t harsh.
It was certain.
“You’re not.”
Dylan looked away.
Kelly crouched slightly so he wasn’t towering over her.
“Did somebody do that to you?”
She immediately shook her head.
“I fell.”
Kelly gave her a look.
“Sure.”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“I did.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t push.
Not yet.
Instead, he looked toward the kitchen.
“Come on.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Didn’t ask.”
Dylan blinked.
Kelly nodded toward the kitchen.
“You’re eating.”
She almost argued.
Then her stomach growled loudly.
Dylan closed her eyes.
Kelly tried very hard not to smile.
“Yeah.”
She looked embarrassed.
“Fine.”
He gestured toward the kitchen.
Dylan took a few steps.
Then stopped.
“You’re not calling the police?”
Kelly looked at her.
“No.”
“My mother?”
“No.”
“You promise?”
Kelly paused.
He couldn’t promise what would happen later.
But he could promise what mattered right now.
“I’m not sending you anywhere.”
Dylan studied him.
Then slowly nodded.
She followed him.
⸻
Kelly didn’t know what to do.
He’d dealt with plenty of difficult situations.
People injured.
People scared.
People who’d lost everything.
But this was different.
This was his mother.
His sister.
A sister he’d never known existed.
And somehow the other side of the story involved a man named Pat Halstead.
Kelly pulled out his phone.
There were questions he needed answered.
A lot of them.
But first he needed to make sure Dylan was okay.
He glanced toward the kitchen.
She was sitting quietly with a plate of food in front of her.
She was eating slowly.
Like she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed to.
Kelly’s chest tightened.
He looked at the birth certificate again.
Dylan Halstead.
Jennifer Sheridan.
Patrick Halstead.
Sixteen years old.
His little sister.
And somewhere in Chicago, there was another part of this family story that Kelly hadn’t even begun to uncover.
Because if Pat Halstead was Dylan’s father…
then Dylan had a whole other family she didn’t even know existed.
And Kelly had a feeling that finding them was going to change everything.