"Hutch?" This time he waited a full minute.

No answer. Mrs. Johnson across the hall opened her door, froze at the look he gave her, and quickly went back inside.

Starsky chewed his lip. "I'm coming in," he finally announced, and pulled his keys from his pocket, already fingering Hutch's, one he used nearly as often as his own.

The soft scrape and rattle of metal announced the chain had just been fastened on the inside of the door.

Starsky's mouth was dry, his throat too narrow. So Hutch had been there on the other side all along. And he'd just made it abundantly clear Starsky was not welcome. Starsky cleared his throat. "Hutch, please, let me in," he said softly. "We hav'ta talk."

The silence pressed down on his soul, until Starsky wasn't sure how long he could bear its weight.

"Please, Hutch," he croaked, begging outright now. "I'm sorry – I wish t' God I'd never said it, but..."

But he had. And the man on the other side of the door couldn't forget that.

His throat and eyes burned, and Starsky choked on tears. That awful silence was like a death knell – his partner was gone. And he had killed him.

His last plea was silent, his hand sliding helplessly off of where he'd pressed it against the door.