Joey couldn't be mistaken. His memory matched the face of the man in the ski mask who shot Jacob Doyle that night with the man now pointing a Colt M1911 at him.
No more than two meters away. A semi-automatic pistol, the same pistol was also pressed against the temple of Joey, who was still kneeling, staring at the man in the black parka jacket in front of him. The finger rested on the trigger, ready to fire a bullet that could pierce his skull, especially at close range.
The loud gunshot and the way Jacob Doyle collapsed flashed briefly in Joey's vision. Now it was his turn. Joey couldn't move, couldn't even run. That pistol had a muzzle velocity of about 800 ft/s, hitting its target with precision.
Before the trigger was pulled, a ringing phone call halted the killer's finger movement. The man in the parka pulled a phone from inside his jacket—without shifting his attention from his target.
Then a voice from the other end simply said, "Not now."
In less than a second, the phone was pocketed again. The man stepped back, without changing his stance, let alone the direction of the Colt M1911's barrel from Joey's temple.
Only when the distance was more than ten meters did the man turn and disappear from Joey's view.
The young man remained in his position. The events that just occurred had successfully caused his mind to malfunction. Kneeling, staring blankly at the spot where the stranger who almost killed him had stood. Then his attention shifted to the phone lying next to the jar of gingerbread men.
The name Domenico momentarily snapped him out of his daze. Joey quickly retrieved the cookie jar. Unfortunately, his Motorola flip phone couldn't be salvaged—its battery was dislodged and its cover flung far away. The phone's screen itself was cracked from the hard impact with the floor.
Joey was frustrated, unable to contact Domenico to say he was okay, at least for now. A public phone was located on the floor below. There were reporters, journalists, and paparazzi who would swarm him, worse still, different killers.
Joey couldn't go anywhere for now, couldn't contact his assistant to give news or ask Charlie to come. At this moment, Joey felt himself becoming a small child again, with danger lurking at any time. The blue iris glanced toward the crack of his apartment door.
Was there another killer inside? Joey didn't dare enter yet. Constantly staying in the quiet corridor was more dangerous—in case that killer returned.
Slowly, Joey stood up, his eyes squinting as he peeked into the apartment. There were no signs of a stranger there, but the loud thumping of his heart hadn't slowed. One long exhale escaped as Joey entered, his instinct saying it was safe enough.
The door closed tightly, becoming Joey's support as his body slid down to sit slumped, holding the jar of gingerbread men and the broken phone in his right hand.
Once again, he took a deep breath with his eyes closed. The relentless shocks left Joey no room to relax and forced him to stay constantly vigilant. He knew this was just the beginning. More dangerous threats were yet to come.
*
A tenderloin steak with creamy mushroom sauce seeping in, served on a white porcelain plate with a blue willow pattern, lay untouched on the walnut wood dining table. The fragrant aroma of shiitake mushrooms and fresh thyme failed to whet Jack Douglas's appetite. The seven-year-old boy slowly pushed his plate away, the silver fork in his hand only poking half-heartedly at the mashed potatoes.
Only when the boy put down his fork did his mother ask, "Do you want something else to eat, Jackie?"
Jack just shook his head, his lips curling into an unenthusiastic expression typical of children. The dining area in their spacious Soho loft felt even larger tonight, with high ceilings exposing wooden beams and large windows reflecting New York streetlights.
The boy quietly glanced at his father, who had been watching him all along without any desire to ask.
"Yes, we only have steak from yesterday, but it's been reheated with mushrooms and potatoes," his mother informed him, a beautiful woman with wheat-blonde hair wearing a pastel blue home dress, busy steeping hot tea with lemon slices.
Charlie Douglas sighed softly. The man knew what his son wanted—it wasn't a different dinner menu. Like most seven-year-olds, he got bored easily, and Jack Douglas wanted a playmate.
"Is Joey coming tonight?" Jack hoped his father would say yes, but only got a faint smile and a shake of the head.
"No, Jackie. Joey is resting tonight, he went to bed early," his mother answered, approaching the chair where the boy sat. Laura stroked her son's brown hair and moved the steak plate that Jack had pushed away closer. "Finish your dinner, then go to bed."
"It's only eight o'clock," said Jack while looking at his father. Charlie had just finished working with his book and pen before setting those aside to eat his still-untouched steak.
"Can't Daddy call him?"
Charlie looked at his son while chewing. "No, Jackie."
"Why not?"
"He's very busy tomorrow."
"Like Daddy." Jack slightly teased his father this time. The boy went back to eating his steak. This time, his wife looked at him, and the man returned the gaze. Charlie said nothing seeing Laura's faint smile at him.
Charlie let out a long sigh. "What can we do, we're in the same line of work."
"A classmate of mine said Joey is involved in a murder case," said Jack, typical of a child his age.
"That's part of a movie scenario," Laura quickly interjected. Understanding a bit about Joey's work and without further curiosity, Jack believed her just like that. "He must be really busy."
Once again, the husband and wife exchanged glances. Soon after, a ringing call was heard. Charlie immediately took his phone from his pocket, then left the dining table to take the call.
·
"If Joey is no longer busy, we'll invite him for dinner," Laura said while pulling the airplane-patterned cotton blanket up to Jack's chest. The child's bedroom felt warm thanks to the softly hissing room heater, its walls covered with astronomy posters and superhero pictures.
"And ask him to stay over too," Jack requested with sleepy eyes still trying to stay open.
"Definitely." Laura kissed her son's forehead, which still carried the scent of children's shampoo, then turned off the main light, leaving only the moon-shaped nightlight emitting a soft golden glow. "We'll have him stay here until he whines to go home."
Both chuckled briefly in the dimly lit darkness.
Jack watched the silhouette of his mother standing at the bedroom doorframe, saying sleepily, "Good night, Jackie, sleep tight." The oak wood door closed softly, leaving a thin sliver of light from the corridor outside.
·
Laura realized something was wrong when she returned to the dining table. Her husband was pacing with his phone in hand, looking restless, and the tenderloin steak on the table was no longer touched.
"Is something wrong?" Laura asked, approaching Charlie.
The man turned, slightly startled, as if unaware his wife had returned from Jack's room.
At first, Charlie seemed hesitant to tell. "Joey has been unreachable since morning. Just now, Sheira went to his apartment and Joey wasn't there."
Laura couldn't hide her surprised and anxious expression.
"He might have gone out to buy something. But, given his current condition..." Charlie massaged his temples. "I hope nothing bad is happening to him."
·
Five minutes passed in boredom before sleepiness finally took over. Jack had just closed his eyes when he heard a faint knock on the glass panel of his second-floor bedroom window. At first, he thought it was just the wind carrying tree branches, but—
Tap tap tap!
The knock was louder this time, rhythmic and deliberate. Jack pulled the blanket up to cover half his face, leaving only wide eyes to peek toward the window where the rocket-patterned curtains were drawn tight. His heart pounded hard—he remembered the scary stories his school friends told.
Tap tap tap!
The third knock almost made him scream for his parents, when—
"Jackie, it's me," a familiar voice sounded from behind the glass, somewhat muffled but still recognizable. "Are you asleep?"
Jack knew this voice—the voice that often played with him and told him stories before bed.
"Open the window, please..."
Without hesitation, the boy threw off his blanket, jumped from his single bed, and opened the curtains. Behind the fogged-up glass from the temperature difference, he saw Joey's pale face with the collar of his leather jacket pulled up high.
"Joey! You came!" he exclaimed happily, all sleepiness vanishing instantly.
Quickly, Joey unlocked the window from the outside—a trick he'd learned since often staying over at the Douglas family's house. He stepped inside, his snow-damp boots leaving moist marks on the carpet. "Shhh..." Joey put his index finger to his lips, his blue eyes gleaming in the dark. Jack immediately covered his own mouth with both small hands, trying to contain his excitement.
"Before bed, I prayed to God for you to come. And now you really came." Jack hugged Joey's waist tightly, his face pressed against the leather jacket still carrying the cold from outside.
Joey gave a faint smile, then crouched down so his gaze was level with Jack's. His cold hands patted the boy's brown hair. In his heart, he remembered his own childhood—how many times he had prayed the same way, hoping someone would come, but it never happened. Until he finally stopped asking.
"You'll stay over, won't you?" Jack asked hopefully.
Joey nodded, though his eyes avoided direct contact. "But first, I need to talk to your father." He stood up again, turning toward the bedroom door. Jack immediately followed him, his tiny fingers clutching the edge of Joey's jacket.
Just as Joey reached the doorknob, the door swung open abruptly from the outside. Laura stood in the doorway with a worried face, wearing a blue silk robe and holding a glass of water.
"Go to sleep, Jack, you don't want to be late for school tomorrow..." Her sentence trailed off. Her eyes widened at the sight of the tall young man standing with her son in the bedroom that should have been quiet.
"Hi," Joey greeted with his characteristic thin smile, his hand still held tightly by Jack hiding behind his back.
·
"Sheira was very worried about you, you know." Charlie watched Joey eagerly eating his tenderloin steak. Seeing the young man in front of him, eating heartily, he was immensely relieved.
"I know," Joey replied. "She's been having panic attacks a lot lately, maybe she needs to see a psychologist, or take a vacation." He spoke about his assistant.
"I was worried about you too, all of us, Joey. Especially when we heard over the phone that you weren't at your apartment when Sheira came."
Joey looked at the man across from him and smiled; he was done with Charlie's dinner. He wanted to go to Jack's room immediately and rest.
"Why didn't you call first before coming here?" Charlie asked, a serious gaze fixed on Joey. "At least I could have picked you up."
Joey exhaled a long breath. "It's unnecessary, I'm not a child who needs to be picked up." The young man was already standing. "My phone is also broken, queuing at a public phone, you yourself said that was dangerous." He walked past Charlie and Laura, who had been standing at the sink since earlier.
"Thanks for dinner, Laura," he said before disappearing through the doorway.
"What did you say? Your phone is broken?" Charlie was about to follow Joey but was held back by his wife.
"Charlie, please... let him be for tonight." Not only Laura realized that Joey was physically and mentally exhausted from what he had experienced. Charlie did too, and in the end, he let Joey escape his interrogation for the night.
---
Thin snow clung to the window frames, forming frozen patterns that were cold and silent. A biting wind crept through the old cracks of Charlie Douglas's brownstone house, which remained awake on the second floor that night.
The clock hands showed 00:17.
In his study, filled with scripts, camera sketches, and piles of VHS tapes, Charlie sat in front of an old wooden desk. The desk lamp illuminated his tired face while his hand still busily scribbled dialogue revisions.
Then, the soft sound of a car engine stopping in front of the house was heard. In the winter silence, it sounded very clear. Not an ordinary car sound—somewhat heavy, rumbling, with a deep engine breath.
Charlie immediately stood up, stepping slowly to the window and carefully parting the curtains.
Down below, beyond the house fence, sat a pitch-black Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. The large sedan was parked silently, its headlights dimly lit. Its windows were dark, impenetrable. Too still for just a lost vehicle.
A few seconds later, as if aware it was being watched, the car slowly reversed and turned out of sight. Disappeared around the corner, leaving faint tire tracks on the snow.
Charlie stood frozen behind the curtain. He recognized that type of car. He had seen it before, or at least, had been told who usually drove it.
·
Downstairs, in Jack's room, Joey was lying on the outer side of the narrow bed they shared that night. His body was covered by a thick blanket, his face turned toward the wall. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. However, as soon as the car sound was heard, his eyes slowly opened.
Silent. Not moving. Joey stared blankly into the darkness of the room, while his breath caught as he realized they had found him again.
·
Charlie woke up the next morning in his office chair, a small blanket having slipped from his shoulders. He glanced at the window, saw his own breath fogging in the cold air, then quickly got up with an aching body and walked to Jack's room.
As soon as the bedroom door opened, his heart immediately sank.
Jack was still fast asleep, his small hands hugging his T-Rex plushie. But Joey wasn't beside him.
The blanket the young man had used last night was folded neatly. His pillow was cold. There were no signs the young man had ever slept there.
This wasn't the first time for Charlie when Joey left silently without saying goodbye. And—most likely—the young man hadn't left alone.
[]