He cleared his throat, coughed lightly, and then spoke, "It doesn't matter what language we use..." He paused, then continued, "Your child is in our hands right now. We will give you one hour to transfer one hundred thousand dollars into this account. If you fail to do so, we will kill her." He slowly began reciting a series of bank account numbers.
I was instantly stunned, overwhelmed with shock and confusion. My child?! In his hands?! My heart raced, and I hastily interrupted him, "Wait! Are you sure you've got the wrong person?! She clearly..."
He clicked his tongue, an exasperated "tsk" escaping his lips, and replied with impatience, "Don't believe me, huh?"
Then, almost immediately, the sound of a little girl crying came through the phone.
It wasn't entirely clear, but upon hearing it, there was something undeniably familiar about the sound of her sobbing.
"Mommy, help me... They're hitting me..."
The voice, trembling with distress, came through faint and indistinct.
I stood frozen, lost in thought, my mind racing. Then, I suddenly realized.
My daughter had a congenital speech disorder, and she could never utter such complete sentences.
I had heard of this type of scam before—criminals paying for recordings of children's cries for help. The children's voices were always indistinguishable from one another, ordinary and unremarkable, and unless the victim was sharp enough, it was all too easy to mistake the recorded voice for their own child.
I understood now—it was nothing more than a scam call.
"One hour. If you dare call the police, we'll kill her immediately..." The man on the other end of the line continued his performance, sounding ever so convincing.
But no matter what, this scammer had inadvertently become my only hope.