From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Outside the window, the sky remained clear, so the bar was unlit.

Old Frank sat in a window seat, the pale moonlight streaming through, keeping it bright.

Because of the backlight, Old Frank's features and expression were indistinct; only the shadow of his profile was visible.

Like a paper cutting.

Old Frank slightly raised his chin, gazing at Little Frank, able to clearly see the intermingling of sorrow and madness in those eyes.

"Then order me to stop."

Little Frank looked down at his father, his words both a command and a plea; a faint tremor in his voice betrayed either anger or despair.

At this moment, Little Frank's face was unseen, his expression and eyes hidden; yet, the silhouette of his profile revealed a hint of sadness and pain.

He had been running, always dodging, refusing to accept the reality of his parents' separation, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand, believing the crisis would disappear.

However, he ultimately failed to escape; the bloody, cruel reality was now laid bare before him.

It was over, everything was over.

Little Frank looked at Old Frank.

Old Frank looked at Little Frank.

Father and son exchanged a glance, yet felt as if they were standing on quicksand, motionless but still slowly sinking, irresistibly sliding towards the abyss.

Finally, Old Frank spoke, "You cannot stop."

Little Frank held his breath.

Old Frank seemed to read movement in Little Frank's eyes, and quickly spoke, trying to call him back, "Where are you going?"

But he could no longer stop Little Frank.

With a turn, Little Frank retreated, stumbling and bumping into things in his father's repeated calls, almost unable to stand, yet never stopping.

The hazy light flowed across his face, and in the flickering shadows, one could see the struggle, despair, pain, and loss in his eyes.

Like free fall.

Finally, Little Frank pushed open the bar door and staggered out.

Another Christmas Eve, another FBI office.

Carl was busy eating Chinese takeout, but this time, he wasn't alone.

The phone rang, and Carl jumped to his feet, signaling to his colleagues.

Counting "one, two, three," all three simultaneously answered the phone.

"This is Hanratty."

"Hello, Carl, Merry Christmas."

The weary voice was clearly Little Frank.

Carl immediately signaled to his colleagues, who began to take notes of key information.

Carl tried to show off, "How are you doing? Dr. Conners."

Little Frank seemed unusually calm, "Carl, I haven't been Dr. Conners for months."

Carl: … …

Carl cleared his throat, "Alright, it's Christmas Eve and I'm sitting in the office, what do you want?"

Little Frank?

Little Frank sat alone in a bar, another Christmas Eve, another solitary existence, different scene but the same loneliness and isolation.

Little Frank was drawing on the bar with his finger, not answering Carl, but lost in his own thoughts, and after a while, he let out a long sigh.

"Alright."

"I want this to end."

"I, uh, want to end this all.

I'm getting married, you know, I'm going to settle down."

But clearly, Carl wasn't buying it, "You stole nearly four million dollars.

You think we'll consider it a wedding gift?"

"No."

"This isn't something you can run away from, Frank."

Little Frank, "I want a truce."

Carl, "No truce."

Carl seemed calm, aggressive, "You'll be caught, you'll go to jail.

What do you think the consequences will be?"

Christmas Eve Little Frank seemed fragile and weak, he murmured softly, "Please let me off the hook, Carl."

"Please?"

But Carl had different ideas, "I'm close to catching you, right?"

"The closer I get, the more afraid you become.

I know you rented a car in Shreveport and are staying at a hotel in Lake Charles."

"You want to run, go ahead.

Your checks won't lie like you do."

Shreveport and Lake Charles are both located in southern Louisiana, three hours' drive from New Orleans.

Suddenly, Little Frank knew that his father was right, the FBI hadn't given up, they were still chasing him.

Little Frank was a little annoyed and a little angry, "Stop chasing me."

Carl took a deep breath, "I can't.

It's my job."

Carl thought Little Frank would be furious, however, the voice from the other end of the phone sounded weak and even had a hint of a smile.

"It's okay, Carl.

I just thought I should ask."

Self-deprecating.

Teasing.

"Hey, Merry Christmas?"

Little Frank's lips slightly curled up, and then he hung up the phone.

But this time, Carl wasn't angry.

"I love my job."

"Okay, let's go through the Louisiana newspapers from the past two months now."

"Engagement announcements, under the name Conners."

The other agents were stunned, with mocking smiles, "Conners?

Please, that kid should have changed his name by now."

Carl shook his head, picking up his takeout box again, "No, he can't change it.

She thinks he's Conners, if he changes his name, he loses the girl."

Carl, correct again.

The FBI accurately found the Strong family, making a grand entrance on the night of the engagement party.

Little Frank noticed the commotion and hurriedly prepared to escape, but he still couldn't bear to leave his beloved Brenda.

In the panic and chaos, Little Frank told Brenda all the truth—

This time, it was for real.

"I'm not a doctor, I've never been to medical school; I'm not a lawyer, not a Harvard graduate, and not a Lutheran."

"Brenda, a year and a half ago, when I was sixteen, I ran away from home."

No concealment, no reservation, no discount.

Little Frank laid himself bare before Brenda, his true self.

Brenda was in confusion and shock, obviously, she couldn't keep up, the man she loved seemed never to have been the person she knew.

"You're not a Lutheran?"

That was Brenda's first reaction.

But Little Frank couldn't bother to explain, he had already prepared everything, cashing checks, two suitcases full of cash, enough to support them for a long time and live a happy life in anonymity.

Brenda had countless questions, and Little Frank had to interrupt her.

"Do you love me? Brenda."

"Yes."

"Do you love me?"

"I love you."

Little Frank dragged the suitcase, preparing to escape through the window, in a hurry, repeatedly telling Brenda the escape route, taking a taxi all night after her parents fell asleep, and meeting at Miami International Airport at ten o'clock in the morning two days later, when they would leave together.

"Frank, please, tell me your name before you go.

Please tell me."

"Little Frank William Abagnale."

He, after all, said it.