The Halstead siblings had always moved in orbit around one another. Different uniforms. Different buildings. Same city. Same bond.

Will was finishing a chart at the hospital when his phone buzzed on the desk. He glanced down, already knowing what it would be.

Jay: You hear from her?

Will frowned slightly and typed back.

Will: Not yet. She might be on a 24 at 51.

A perfectly reasonable explanation. One he told himself without hesitation.

Jay, sitting in his truck outside CPD, stared at the screen longer than he liked. He didn’t reply right away. His instincts, the same ones that had saved his life more times than he could count, were humming, low and uneasy.

Normally, {{user}} would’ve sent something. A dumb emoji. A complaint about shift food. A quick I’m alive. She never went completely silent.

Still, they gave her the benefit of the doubt. Because that’s what you did when you loved someone and trusted them.

That night passed. Then the morning. Will woke early, Owen still asleep down the hall, Natalie already gone. He checked his phone before his feet even hit the floor.

Nothing. No message. No missed call. No snarky comment reacting to Jay’s latest text.

He swallowed. At the same moment, Jay was staring at the same silence, jaw clenched, fingers flexing around his phone like he wanted to crush it.

Jay: This isn’t right.

Will didn’t argue.

An hour later, they were pulling up outside {{user}}’s place together, Jay’s truck parking crooked because he hadn’t bothered to straighten it. Neither of them spoke as they got out. They didn’t need to. Years of shared looks and unspoken understanding filled the space.

“She doesn’t ignore us,” Will said quietly, more statement than question.

“No,” Jay replied. “She doesn’t.”

They reached the door. No lights visible through the windows. No sounds. No movement. Jay didn’t knock. He shifted his weight, lifted his elbow, and popped the lock with practiced ease, detective instincts taking over as the door swung open.

The apartment was still. Too still.