Matt tried to talk to his boyfriend once they returned to the firehouse, but Severide completely shut down.

"There's nothing to talk about," the dark-haired man said dully, violently slamming a compartment door on his squad. "OFI can look into it, but Dawson's right. It's probably nothing."

Matt regarded him skeptically. "Kelly, it's obviously upsetting –"

Severide cut him off with a sullen glare.

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments, Severide slowly working his jaw. Finally, he averted his eyes to the floor of the app bay and quietly spoke.

"I appreciate your concern, but the fire was not arson. It just wasn't. Alright?"

His tone made it clear that the conversation was over. Cautiously, Matt nodded. When Severide dug his heels in, pushing was the worst thing he could do.

"Alright," he reluctantly agreed, giving Severide a look that said "this isn't over."

Severide stormed off the app floor and in the direction of his office, and nobody was foolish enough to stop him. Dawson stood next to Matt, watching him go.

"He'll be okay," she tried to reassure him, though she didn't sound convinced.

Still staring at the doors through which his boyfriend had disappeared, Matt nodded.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Let's just hope we get some answers soon."


After shift, Kelly texted Casey to warn him that he wouldn't be home for a few hours. They were scheduled to meet up with Atwater at the storage unit, but Casey and Dawson could handle that. They didn't need a Squad Lieutenant to point out that most non-arsonists didn't stockpile brake fluid, chlorine, and newspaper clippings from fires across the city.

He needed to clear his head, so he decided to go for a run. He changed into shorts and a t-shirt as shift ended, leaving his Mustang parked outside the firehouse with his bag. Thanks to a lesson learned through painful experience, he kept his phone powered off in his pocket instead of leaving it in the car.

He didn't think much about where he was going, but out of habit, he jogged east, towards the riverwalk. Shay used to love going for walks by the river, and they'd often met up there in between shifts. He hadn't been there voluntarily all summer, since before that fateful call.

He was able to keep his mind clear for a few minutes, watching out for cars and other pedestrians as he weaved his way through the neighborhoods between the firehouse and the highway. Unfortunately, he could only outrun his thoughts for so long.

What if it was arson?

It changed nothing. How the explosion happened didn't matter. Whether it was irresponsible squatters or a serial arsonist, learning those details wouldn't alter the outcome.

The fire happened. He fucked up. His best friend's life would never be the same.

That was what mattered.

Kelly walked more than ran until he reached the river, barely noticing his surroundings. He knew every street like the back of his hand, probably better than the people who lived and worked there. Stubbornly, he tried to keep his mind clear of conscious thought, but everything he laid eyes on reminded him of Shay.

He jogged north along the river and then east along the riverwalk, thankful for the relatively small crowds of a mid-morning weekday.

"Don't think, don't think, don't think," he chanted to himself with each footstep, half in his thoughts and half mumbling aloud. He was familiar with the idea that others could simply choose to not think, but the only ways he could ever access that place were through drugs or S&M.

Nearing the Vietnam War memorial, he stopped running, dropping to the grass to stretch. He sat there quietly for a few minutes, staring straight ahead. Each time his thoughts strayed too close to the elephant in the room, he angrily berated himself, clamping down on his emotions like a steel trap.

Could we have been targeted?

The dangerous thought snuck past his defenses. He forcefully shook his head.

Lightning doesn't strike twice, Severide.

It was nothing but paranoia – but then, once you've been targeted by a serial arsonist once…

It does if you're a lightning rod.

Snorting derisively at the thought, he stood and looked around, deciding which way to go. He crossed the bridge, then wandered aimlessly, paying just enough attention to avoid walking into traffic.

He didn't know why the possibility of arson felt like such a threat. Beth would tell him to dig into that, but he preferred to retreat.

The problem was… he usually sought refuge from his thoughts at the bottom of a bottle, but today, he had no desire to drink. It rarely worked anyway, just amplifying the problems he already had.

Damn that support group.

He wasn't an alcoholic, but sitting there week after week for Casey, some degree of self-awareness managed to sneak in. He understood, now, that his painkiller addiction was an extension of the same maladaptive behavior that had led him to dump Casey when he got close to Hallie and to run away when things got tough with Shay. Fear was his triggering emotion, and his conditioned response was to flee.

Thanks, Dad.

A nagging voice told him that walking for hours through the city, hoping to lose his thoughts along the way, was probably more of the same. He rejected that insight with a groan.

He stepped into a corner store to buy bottled water, then drank it slowly while leaning against a brick wall. Nobody paid attention to him, and it was nice to disappear.

It was afternoon by now, so Casey, Dawson, and Atwater would be done. Lowering his guard slightly, he allowed himself to wonder how it went. That was a slippery slope, and he soon found his thoughts forcing their way into forbidden territory.

Could it have been a no-win scenario by design?

No. It couldn't be someone else's fault. It just couldn't. If that was true, it would shake the very foundation on which he'd rebuilt his psyche. Day after day at the cabin, he'd shaken off the memories and drug himself out of bed with the lure of two simple words – "my fault."

I don't want to share the blame.

The weight of that realization settled heavily on his shoulders.

It was his fault Shay was hurt, no matter how it happened. If it was arson, then he should have seen it. He and Casey had no business calling the medics in until every room of the warehouse was clear. If something in there was rigged to blow once first responders entered, not catching that was on him, too.

That was the truth. Any further context meant nothing.


Returning home from the meeting with Atwater, Gabby also struggled to cope. She was somber as she kissed her boyfriend in greeting, and she stared pensively at Shay's back for nearly a minute before saying hello.

"What did Atwater have to say?" Mills asked cluelessly, passing her a plate with his signature grilled cheese.

She and Casey had told the others that the storage unit looked like an arsonist's stockpile and that there were newspaper clippings from fires all over the city, but they'd left the important part out. None of the three who knew thought the knowledge would benefit Shay – not until they figured out the truth. And most of their fellow firefighters were gossips, so it seemed prudent not to loop them in.

Mills, though… He had a right to know. It was his life, too.

Watching him dig into his gooey sandwich, Gabby wanted to let him stay naive. Just for today. She would tell him tomorrow – definitely before their next shift.

"Well, since the fire in the storage unit wasn't arson and nobody was injured, he says there's no real reason to get forensics in there. He's checking with the building owner to find out who rented the unit, but the guy said he paid cash. So it might be a dead end."

"Damn," Mills commented. "They really have to rule that fire accidental? I mean, Cruz said the guy had fertilizer, brake fluid, propane, all kinds of flammable stuff in there. How much of an accident was it, really?"

Gabby sighed, agreeing with him. "Right? But I guess none of it is technically evidence of any crime."

It just raised the possibility of one.

For the rest of the day, Gabby struggled to make eye contact with her partner and best friend. Her mind raced with questions – about the arsonist, and about how they would each react. After months of grieving, they were both finally starting to heal. Was it right to throw a wrench in that over one piece of paper?

When Mills mentioned cooking dinner, Gabby faked receiving a text.

"Hey, um, Otis needs me to cover at Molly's… Do you guys mind if I go?"


Jeff was hanging out with Capp, Tony, and the guys from his own shift of Squad 3 when the Dawson siblings arrived. Antonio Dawson was one person Jeff was highly motivated to avoid, charges dropped or not. He knew the detective had ultimately tried to help him, but his handling of the early investigation had left much to be desired. And either way, having drinks with the guy who arrested you for murder wasn't Jeff's idea of a fun night out.

Unfortunately, Voight's Intelligence unit as a whole seemed oblivious to his distaste. Since they were an intelligence unit, he hoped that meant they were making a point of ignoring it. Surely, they weren't that dumb.

Dawson Mini went directly to the bar, while the cop made a beeline for Jeff.

Why me? There was a whole bar full of people he probably knew better.

Jeff made his posture as unfriendly as he dared to in front of his men.

"Hey, Clarke," Antonio greeted him, deploying a voice that clearly indicated he was about to ask a favor.

Jeff looked up at him, expressionless. "Hey, Dawson."

The detective made himself welcome, taking a seat between two of his men.

"So I know you did arson investigations in Afghanistan."

Jeff stared blankly. "You could call it that."

Antonio's charming demeanor was unaffected. "Gabby and I have something we'd like you to take a look at."

Jeff leaned into his decision to be an asshole. "Gabby – the candidate? If she has questions about a call, she should ask her own Lieutenant."

Antonio's resolve cracked, and a vein on his forehead popped.

"Is this the thing Severide and Casey were all worked up about?" Capp asked pointedly, shooting Jeff a warning glare.

Severide's name caught his interest, and he looked back to Antonio with less disdain.

The cop shrugged. "Nothing to be worked up about yet. Just some questions. Clarke?"

Capp smirked. "You don't think Clarke did it, do you?"

"Shut up, Capp," Jeff sighed. As always, he was grateful Capp was there. The man was like social lubricant, only he sometimes sent you flying off in a direction you didn't want to go.

Nodding to the Dawsons, he slowly stood up.

"Alright. Let's talk."