Ghostwriter

Chapter 1

I shouldn't do it. Colton could get hurt if the wrong people found out. The internet is no safe place, and they could track it back to my computer. If they find me, they find Colton, and I'm not sure where Colton would go after me. I'm not sure I trust the Gotham Social Services to put him in the right place, if they even bothered to show up and take him. I promised myself when Colton went under my custody that I would do whatever it takes to keep us afloat, and that includes not screwing with the wrong people.

I manage to fold all the clothes and even wash some of the dishes before Colton starts screaming. I sigh and my tired eyes blink three times before I trudge back to our bedroom.

Colton squirms at the sight of me, the folds of his faded yellow-white onesie scrunching. I scoop him up and cradle him to my chest. "Hey, Hottie Tottie..."

He calms down as I pat his back. "Only two hours today? Couldn't give a girl three? I need to nap too, you know." Not that I would have napped with that hour, but whatever.

Colton nudges my breast with his head and whines. "Yeah, you're hungry. That's what happens when you decide to puke up all over Goodwill." I sniff his diaper and smile when it doesn't smell.

"Let's get you some food, Hottie Tottie." I pad back into the main room and find some formula before giving it to him in a bottle. I sit on the couch as I feed him.

The couch, a patched-up maroon and blue plaid horror that I found at a flea market, has soft cushions that I could dive into. It used to smell of cheese, but now it smells like Colton and me. It smells like home. Colton's eyes, filtered by long eyelashes, blink as his pink puckered lips suck the bottle.

His mother, I think, was the second-most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on, so it's no surprise that she found herself a trophy husband and produced a beautiful child. Colton inherited her long, dark lashes, and her mass bundle of wild dark curls that sat on top of her head like an untamed jungle. I think he got his father's eyes, because Mari's eyes shined like gold, but I can never tell what color Colton's eyes are. Sometimes, I think they're green, other times, brown.

I rock Colton, brush one of his mother's curls from his forehead (he was born with an abundance), and tilt the bottle higher as he reaches the end of his formula. I close my eyes and kiss his forehead.

"Sorry, Colton. I know it's not your mamma's milk. You deserved more."

Colton finishes off the bottle, so I clean up then set him on a blue blanket on the floor so he can play. He lays on his back and stares at the ceiling, then belches. He giggles at the sound, then pumps his legs back and forth. He sucks on his fingers and gazes around the room as if he hasn't lived here for the majority of his short life.

I take out one of his mother's diaries from under the couch and flip through the pages. Marigold Jackson Sionis poured herself into it without reserve. These books that she left clearly weren't meant to be read, but... they're all I have left of her other than her son. Tear stains mark most of the back half of this one, her last one.

To go with Transfuse is to be transformed, like a caterpillar into a butterfly. But the caterpillar must be broken down by its very own acid in the cocoon. What then is the price of flight, or having wings to soar? Am I ready to pay it?

I'm careful not to smudge the ink with my thumb, and I glance up at Colton, who's trying to put his foot into his mouth, but he can't hold onto his ankle long enough before his grip slips and his foot falls back to the blanket.

For him.

Or for her?

Or for the others like them?

I have everything at my fingertips, information that newspapers and journals would kill to get their hands on. I've got the power of the pen and the voice of a lion. I've got Mari's journals, her first-hand experiences.

But I have her kid, too. I've got to look after Colton, I can't let him go. I can't let Transfuse find him.

What about the others? Mari can't be the only one who met her end at their hands. What about their families? Don't they deserve to know?

What about Transfuse? What happens to it when I release the information?

Some people speculate, but normally the newspapers or the journalists that do are somehow shut down, one way or the other. People that know too much and try to say it, or could possibly say it, are silenced. As a result, the public doesn't really know what's going on, and they just assume that it's another slightly shady company.

What will Transfuse do to a simple blogger, especially one that could disappear without too many people asking questions?

If I release Mari's story, her truth, can I provoke enough public outrage to have a governmental reaction? To maybe shut Transfuse down? To end what ended Mari and her husband?

Can I?

...

I can.

I will.

I have to.

I need to.

I want to.

I open my old, silver-turned-grey laptop, and start typing under a Word Doc. I funnel the writing skills that I earned from minoring in English.

"Transfuse"

I pause, take a breath, peer at Colton's head of curls (he's finally gotten his foot in his mouth and now he's slobbering all over it), then dive back in with a new idea in mind. It'll buy me some time, at least, if they come looking.

As anyone in the United States knows, Transfuse is a California based cosmetics company that appears to promote feminism or girls in general. They advertise on TV, they hand-out free samples, they help educate women in cosmetics classes, and they do charities here and there that generally have to do with women empowerment in developing countries.

Well, I don't care what they sell, because I'm not buying it. And I'm not just talking about their lotions. Everything that they say is a lie, and everything that they do has a purpose behind it that you're not told about.

I was told. I know about them. I know because they killed someone very close to me, someone who wrote down everything and left a paper trail behind that I'm following. I'll give you updates as I go, but know this off the bat:

Transfuse is a vicious cult, and I'm here to expose them for what they are.

~Ghostwriter