I drove to a secluded spot, an old overlook near the quarry that teenagers used for drinking and that I used for thinking. It was dark, silent, and dead. Perfect. I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, just breathing. The digital recorder was in my pocket, burning a hole through the fabric against my thigh.
I had paused it right before the real horror began. I knew I had to listen to the rest. If I was going to do what I planned to do, I needed fuel. I needed to hate them more than I loved my own freedom. I pulled the recorder out. The small red light blinked once, a single mechanical heartbeat in the dark cab of the truck. I pressed play.
The sounds that filled the truck were worse than any war zone. In war, there is chaos, shouting, explosions. This was intimate. This was the sound of heavy breathing, of fabric rustling, of leather gloves creaking as hands tightened their grip. “Please,” Tessa gasped. Her voice was strained, like someone was pressing a knee into her chest. “Dad, please don’t do this.
