Colton Baby Conspiracy. Marie Ferrarella

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       Prologue

      They enjoyed being in control; they always had. Even back in the early days, alone and struggling to make ends meet, a day-to-day world nothing if not hopeless and bleak, they’d dreamed of being in a position when they would finally be in control.

      Slowly but surely, they had worked relentlessly toward reaching that goal, moving from stepping-stone to small stepping-stone until finally, finally arriving at a place of authority. When they finally controlled people who didn’t even realize they were being controlled.

      I am that good, they thought with a self-congratulating smile.

      And this, this, they thought, looking at the email draft on their laptop, was going to be the ultimate achievement, the crowning glory. Because when this email went out and at long last set this greatest plan in motion, they were going to be in control of not just a person or a small group of people but of a large, thriving company.

      An entire, billion-dollar company.

      It would be, they thought with a smug, self-satisfied smile, like going from presiding over a tiny cottage in the forest to ruling over a giant kingdom.

       My giant kingdom.

      Oh, there would be a figurehead to front the company, but they would be the one who told that figurehead what to do, what to think. They would be the one in charge of everything.

      As it should be. After all, who better to control all those employees? Who was more deserving to reap all those rewards?

      They laughed to themselves.

      “Why, me of course. I’m the most deserving person I know,” they announced to the surrounding darkness of the small office where they presently oversaw the organization they had created and molded out of nothing.

      Taking a deep breath, they pulled back their shoulders and focused on the task at hand. The shadowy figure reread the words that had been typed and then retyped so many times since this idea had begun to take its final shape.

      This had to be perfect.

      The email had to sound coherent. To read as if it was written by an intelligent person—but not by someone who was overly intellectual. Or that some delusional, misguided person had written it.

      Above all, it could not come across as if it was a hoax. It had to read as if every word was nothing but the absolute truth.

      They wanted the message to read as if the person who wrote it was cool, calm and just a touch superior. Because I am, they thought. Superior to the lot of them. And more than just by a touch. Because once they acted on this knowledge, it would be the beginning of their downfall.

      It might take a week, or a month or even a year—although they doubted it would take that long—but they would definitely fall.

      A smug smile curved their lips as they relished the thought and looked forward to the day all of this would come together.

      For what felt like the hundredth time, they scanned the words on the computer screen. Words they had been tweaking and tinkering with for what felt like an eternity now.

      They would really love to sign a name to the email, but in order for this to work, to avoid intense scrutiny and questioning, the source СКАЧАТЬ