Before the recording began, the precinct ringtone sounded from the phone on my father's hip.
The same vibration buzzed against the steel table.
No one moved.
Sarah pointed to the torn pocket of my dress. A weak light pulsed beneath the blood-soaked fabric in time with the ringing. My cheap burner phone, the backup I kept hidden, showed the same incoming precinct call as the phone on my father's hip.
My father stared from his own screen to the phone beside my body. He lowered his phone. No one repeated the word *hack*.
His mouth opened, then closed. My mother gripped the edge of the table.
He let the call ring out and returned to the shattered screen. This time his hand shook when he pressed play.
Static hissed. Then my recorded voice said, *"Please. Let me go."*
I screamed.
The so
