Author Note:

Please note this is complete rewrite. While the premise of the first part has remained the same, the narrative has changed. The subsequent parts will not follow the sequels that were originally posted, making this essentially an entirely new story. My apologies to those who liked the originals. This was an opportunity for me to "fix" everything that I thought went so wrong with these stories the first time around. I had to take it.

Thank you for your continued interest in this trilogy. I appreciate everyone who decides to give it another chance.

As always, comment if you want to. Rumor has it fanfic writers love that kind of thing.

PROLOGUE:

VENICE PLACE, BAY CITY, CA

MARCH 5, 1979

The lady downstairs had let him in.

Though she had eyed him warily at first, her dark eyes looking him up and down, her aged face wrinkling and puckering as she frowned. He was a newcomer—a stranger to her. Someone to be carefully assessed then turned away or allowed entry into the living quarters he had come to view. She took her time deciding which, then, seemingly determining there was enough of a family resemblance, she produced a key from the back office.

"That other guy isn't going to like finding you here when he gets back," she muttered, leading him up the stairs. The soft words were nearly inaudible, quickly absorbed into the walls of the steep staircase surrounding them. "Even if you really are his roommate's father."

Lips frozen in stubborn line, John Hutchinson ignored her statements. He had given little thought to pleasing or upsetting others with his presence. He hadn't traveled this far to make acquaintances, and he had no desire to engage in small talk with strangers. In fact, had the decision been left up to him, he would have liked to avoid the trip entirely. But there was a promise to fulfill and an envelope to deliver. The last two things he would ever do for his beloved son.

Coming to stop before the closed apartment door, his stomach churned with dread. He didn't want to enter the apartment and find himself surrounded by his son's belongings; he didn't want to wander around the space, aimlessly theorizing about how his son had lived—or how he died.

Unlocking the door, the woman clutched the key protectively. "If you're still alone when you get done looking through things, then be sure to lock the door when you leave." She assessed him skeptically. "And for the love of God don't take anything. Lord knows what kind of trouble I'll get into if you do. The guy who lived here was cop, you know."

"I know," John said, his tone even despite the jolting pain erupting in his chest. It was a feeling he had become accustomed to over the last few weeks. A heartache so deep and vast that he was certain it would never fully leave him. He wasn't sure he wanted it to; it seemed wrong to hope for such a thing.

"And so is the guy who's still living here," the woman added.

"I know that, too."

"I supposed you do." Her expression softened. "The man who was killed was much younger, but, Jesus, he looked just like you. I didn't say it before, but I am sorry for your loss. It's terrible what happened to your son. Just terrible. You never think that kind of thing can happen to anyone in your neighborhood, you know? Rotten things happen all the time, but I guess we always think it shouldn't happen to anyone we know."

Unwilling to continue the conversation, John nodded impatiently at the door. "I would like to go in now."

"Of course. Like I said, you lock up when you leave."

"I will."

She left him then, her swift footsteps echoing through the staircase as she made her way down. He closed his eyes, feeling as though his heart was pulsating in his chest. He didn't want to be here. Helplessly, he wondered why had come as he hesitated mere inches from the doorway that would lead him somewhere he had never been. Then, inhaling a deep breath, he opened the door and slowly entered the apartment. He determined not to stay long or spend too much time considering the space. He would go inside quickly, spending just enough time to leave the envelope behind somewhere it was sure to be found. There were two letters inside of it—one from himself, explaining the documents it contained and who to contact if there were questions, and another from Kenneth, an apology and good-bye of sorts—both intended for the man whom the woman downstairs had warned him about. Entering the apartment, however, his determination to leave quickly slipped away. He was too taken aback by what he saw—and how he felt. Open and inviting, the space was small and clean. Flowing seamlessly into the kitchen, the living room was uncluttered. Magazines, records, books, and a guitar sat untouched in their respective places, each seemingly patiently waiting to be picked up again.

Frozen in place, John was numb, taken aback by the hominess of the apartment, overwhelmed by the indisputable knowledge that his son was gone. He wanted to cry, to scream about how disgraceful the situation was and bellow a heart wrenching truth which had been discovered long before this moment: A child should never die before a parent. A father should never have to endure a single day knowing that his only son had passed away. And through it all, his regret remained.

Why had he never come here before? Why was this visit destined to be facilitated by tragedy rather than good-intentions?

The question was as painful to think about as its jarring answer. He had never visited because his son had instructed him to stay away.

"It's too dangerous," Kenneth had said, his voice soft as the deterring statement crackled through the long-distance phone line. He hadn't been in the US during their conversation, John was certain about that, but he couldn't recall where his son had been. How could he? It was a detail Kenneth had been so careful not to share. "It's hard enough to maintain my image from day-to-day, I can't have you showing up in Bay City and complicating things."

The explanation had been a farce, Richard had known that then. Things were already complicated for his son and they had been for quite some time. The obstacles thwarting his life, though self-inflicted, had long predated Kenneth's forced bid for his father to stay away. Kenneth's secrets were resolute, they remained the same since the day he had embarked on his perilous career until his untimely death.

"Besides, I'm supposed to hate you, remember?" Kenneth had asked playfully. "That's the story and I'm sticking to it. It's too late to change it now."

At the time, John had closed his eyes, picturing his son's mouth curling into a brilliant smile; it had been a happy thought, something to hold on to and remember, but it didn't take long for the truth to sully the moment—as it always did.

There was a time when his son's words had carried more truth than fiction, when their father-son relationship had been tattered and strained. Days, months, and years had passed without a word spoken between them; they were both too stubborn for their own good. John hadn't agreed with his son's choice in career. Searching for something more than his affluent, Midwestern upbringing could provide, Kenneth had embraced secrecy and adventure, turning his back on the innocuous life his father had wanted for him. It was his son's profession that had shattered their relationship, though, eventually, it had mended it, too. When Kenneth had finally decided he needed someone to trust, someone who could burden the sliver of truth he could tell and would always hold his best interest at heart, he had turned to his father. Not for help—because that hadn't been an option—but for emotional support.

"When are you coming home?" John had asked.

"To Minnesota?"

"To America."

"Oh… Uh… There's some loose ends. I'll be here for… awhile."

"Tell me where they've sent you this time."

"You know I can't do that."

"Then tell me that you're okay," John had urged, not fully understanding why he needed confirmation of such a thing. Kenneth was alive. He had called him on the third day of an extended covert visit just as he always did—just as he had once promised he always would.

"Dad—"

"Tell me."

"I'm okay."

Even then, he had known his son's enthusiasm was forced.

Suffocating on the weight of the memory, John made his way outside and into a small enclosed greenhouse attached to the apartment. Surrounded by lines of flourishing greenery, he felt too old and exhausted to be facing this pain alone. His wife, Dorothy, was too emotionally fragile to be expected to visit Bay City. Their daughter, Mallory, hadn't spoke of Kenneth since his funeral she didn't know how to process the loss of her brother.

As siblings, Kenneth and Mallory had never been accused being close. Too much time had passed between his birth and hers to expect such a thing. Kenneth had been their first child; his birth had been carefully anticipated, decided upon and planned for just after John and Dorothy had been married. Mallory had come along much later; her addition to their family was neither decided upon nor expected, but she was welcome just the same. Kenneth had been midway through high school when she was born and teenage boys couldn't be expected to have an interest in babies. She was merely a toddler when he had left for college, and like her brother before her, Mallory had grown up as an only child. She and Kenneth had spoken only sporadically and spent little time together. She was child and he was an adult; their lives and goals were decidedly different and left little room for mutual understanding or fierce togetherness.

John and Dorothy had always assumed—they all had—that a day would finally come when enough time would pass to bring Kenneth and Mallory closer together—when the gap between their ages wouldn't seem so wide and they would have a plethora of things to agree upon or argue about. John had always believed that someday Kenneth and Mallory would have an opportunity to get to know each other. But that hadn't been the case. Kenneth was dead—they had finally killed him, just he had always feared they would. He and Mallory didn't know each other and now they never would.

John knew he would never be privy to the details of how or why his son had died. Though his son's superiors had advised of his passing, they had communicated the same specifics that had been released to the public. His son's body had been found on the stained concrete inside an abandoned warehouse, lying lifeless next to an unconscious man. The other man, Michael Bennett, had been lucky—if one could call him that. Sustaining a traumatic brain injury, Bennett now lay in coma with little hope of regaining consciousness. But he was alive—which was more than John could say for his own son. Kenneth's official cause of death had been listed as a gunshot wound to the head. The explanation was infuriating; it was too simplistic, because, though he would never know the truth, John was sure that what his son had endured had been much worse than that.

Hanging his head, John forced a deep breath as tears threated to overwhelm him. He wouldn't cry. Not now. Not here, surrounded by so much vibrant, green life. There were dark, private rooms for such a thing, complete with towering bookcases and large oak desks hiding full bottles of amber bourbon in their bottom drawers. He had two such places at his disposal; one in a towering hospital building where he conducted office hours and another at home. He wouldn't lose control over his emotions here; he would hold on to his devastation, eventually expressing it in private quarters at a more appropriate time.

"What are you doing here?" a masculine voice asked from behind. Gritty and low, the words were slightly slurred and decidedly annoyed.

John didn't turn around. He didn't need to see the man standing behind him to know who it was—because he had warned by the lady downstairs. He didn't have to look to know what he would see—because he had seen it before.

Though he hadn't attended the memorial service, the young man standing behind him had shown up for Kenneth burial; arriving at the cemetery announced, he had lingered a fair distance from the group. Standing amongst headstones, old and new, tall and short, the young man had looked terrible; his hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled and blue tennis shoes left untied. Taking long pulls of a bottle, the label of which was hidden beneath a brown paper bag, there was a sadness gleaming in his tired, blood-shot eyes. It was the first time John had seen the man Kenneth had always spoken so highly of; the man whom his son had said was loyal, trustworthy, loving, and kind. He had wanted so badly to speak to him—to leave the group and ask how he was and thank him for the making the journey to the Midwest— but, at the time, it wasn't appropriate to do such a thing and by the time the service was over, the young man had been gone. He had left before they could be properly introduced.

"You shouldn't be here," David Starsky growled. "You have no right to be here. You aren't welcome here. Hutch hated you."

"I know," John agreed, forcing an even tone; though he had consented to the younger man's statement, it still stung. Turning around, he noted Starsky's haggard appearance—the drunken gleam in his eyes and how his body slightly swayed, to and fro as he struggled to remain still and upright, rooted in place—and mournfully realized that not much had changed. "But he loved you."

Starsky flinched, absorbing the words like a punch. "What do you know about love?" He frowned, his forehead wrinkling with disgust. "What do you know about me, or him for that matter?"

John shook his head dismissively; there was no point debating such things now. There was a story to adhere to protect the details Kenneth had obstinately insisted remain hidden. "Are you living here?"

"Would it matter if I was?"

"No."

"Then I am." Starsky looked around the greenhouse forlornly, reaching out his hand to carefully caress the leaves of an adjacent plant. "Someone has to keep what's left of him alive. Nobody else seemed to care what happened to any of this, so I figured it had to be me."

"I should have come sooner," John agreed. He had wanted to but there had been so much to do after his son's death. There had been arrangements to make, decisions to be made, people to notify, and there had been a great amount of corollary at home. Dorothy had fallen into a depression so immense that he wasn't sure she would ever would ever fully emerge from it; Mallory had dropped out of college and showed no interest in ever returning.

"You shouldn't be here at all," Starsky said.

"What about you? Should you be here?"

Opening his month to reply, Starsky hesitated instead, his eyes flickering with immediate anger which was quickly chased by sadness. "I'm not gonna stay forever," he said quietly, a moment later, his eyes glistening. "I just thought…I don't know. I guess I'm planning on staying until the lease runs out, then I'll figure out my next move."

"Next move? Are you thinking of embarking on a different life?"

Shrugging, Starsky didn't answer.

"I hope you don't," John said. "Like you said, someone needs to keep my son's memory alive." Holding up his hands, he indicated at their surroundings. "He once lived in this apartment; he once stood beside you nearly every day. He loved and protected you until the day he died."

"I can't think about any of that, so don't you dare bring it up." Starsky balled his hands into tight fists. "I'm not like the rest of you," he added, his quiet voice cracking with strain. "It's only been a month since we found him…"

"I know."

"…And two weeks since you buried him. It feels like he was just here laughing and smiling, playing his guitar and watering his stupid plants. And now he's gone. I can't think about who he was to me or anyone else. I can't think about him being gone, and I can't leave this place, not right now, so don't even ask me to."

"I not asking for anything from you."

"Because I can't seem to tolerate remembering him," Starsky said, his angry words thick with tears, continuing on as though John hadn't said a thing. He was captive to his own thoughts, memories, and pain. "But I can't carry on like he never existed, because that not right. He was everything to me. I built my life around him and now he's gone. Somebody killed him and I don't even know why."

"You never will," John said. He was immediately remorseful for not controlling his tone, for speaking impulsively, expressing biting frustration and bitter anger over the situation rather than common grief. He wasn't angry at the Starsky for living in his son's home; he wasn't irritated by his lingering presence or inability to let go. He was grateful; it was comforting to know, that despite everything, Kenneth had found someone who could still love him as much as Starsky appeared to. "And neither will I," he added quickly. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out the envelope. "I have something for you."

"What could you possibly have for me?" Starsky asked skeptically.

"Legal documents, bank account information, tiles and deeds to everything son acquired over his life. You don't have to leave this apartment, not now, not ever if you don't want to. There is no lease on this property, my son owned it."

"That can't be right."

"It is. He purchased it last year."

"No. He didn't," Starsky insisted. "He would have told me if he had. He told me everything; there isn't anything that he did that I didn't know about. There has to be some mistake."

"There is no mistake, at least not where my son's estate is concerned…"

"Estate?"

"The apartment belonged to Kenneth, so that makes it yours."

"How does that make it mine?" Starsky eyed the envelope warily. "He's dead so you're just giving it to me?"

"I'm not giving you anything," John whispered, his voice suddenly tight. "But Kenneth is. He left everything he had to you."

"Why?"

"Because he loved you; he stood by and protected you while he was alive and, even now, he wants to make sure you are taken care of."

Offering the envelope once more, John smiled sadly as Starsky finally took it, but the slight joy was short-lived, for as soon as the item was transferred to his grasp, Starsky allowed it to fall on the greenhouse floor.

"Then he should have lived."