Man of Her Dreams Debra Webb (top 100 books to read txt) 📖

and placed it on a tray, along with the two glasses of milk. No need for napkins. Licking gooey chocolate from fingers was part of the fun of homemade cookies.

But neither of them would ever taste those lovingly prepared cookies for when she made her way to the backyard with the laden tray, her little girl was gone.

Days would turn into weeks and weeks to a month before the body would be found.

Ashes, ashes,

We all fall down.

Chapter One

New Orleans

Two months later

They were coming for her.

Another test, more poking and prodding.

She couldn’t let them know. If they ever found out what she could do…

Block the dreams. Don’t look. Don’t see.

They could never know the truth.

The man in the white lab coat smiled down at her. He spoke of his own daughter. He seemed kind. Much kinder than the other one. But she knew better than to trust even him. He wanted to know the truth so he could tell the others. And she would never be safe, never be free if they knew the truth.

It didn’t matter that they’d held her prisoner her whole life, even before she was born. She could see beyond the walls, beyond the hiding place where they conducted their secret tests. She knew the truth.

But they could never know.

Never, never, never.

If they knew they would keep her forever.

Darby Shepard bolted upright in her bed. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She shoved her sweat-dampened hair from her eyes and forced her respiration to slow.

She was safe.

At home.

In her own bed.

No need to be afraid.

Long minutes passed before her racing heart calmed. She hated those dreams. Shivering with the receding adrenaline, she cursed herself as she stumbled out of bed. 7:00 a.m. already. She had to hurry or she’d be late for school.

As she quickly showered and then dressed, she tried repeatedly to put the dream out of her thoughts but she couldn’t. It was always the same. The men in the white lab coats were coming for her. She had to keep her dreams a secret. Could tell no one. Couldn’t tell them what she saw. She paused, her fingers stilling on the buttons of her dress. The part that got to her the most was the idea that the dream was a little too real.

She never told anyone what she saw in those nightmares. Never shared the dreams that came, unbidden, with another living soul for fear of…what? The men in the white coats? Maybe.

Darby quickly brushed her damp hair and twisted it into a braid. There was no time to dry the waist-length tresses or even to grab a bite of breakfast. She would be late for school. What kind of example would the teacher set if she showed up late for school?

Teacher. She did so love her work, loved the children.

The crisp October morning sent goose bumps across her skin as she pedaled her bike as fast as she could, quickly moving from Cohn to Broadway and then along Sycamore Street. Halloween was scarcely more than a week away. The ghosts and goblins would be out well before then. Like the North Pole was to Santa, New Orleans was the home to Halloween and all sorts of other wicked things.

She bore to the right on South Claiborne Avenue, then took a hard right onto Jefferson. She scarcely had time to notice the eighteenth-century cobblestoned streets she loved or the tourists and fortune-tellers alike who were already moving about this morning. Soon the streets would be filled with vendors and leftover partygoers from the night before.

Usually she took her time, absorbing the ambience, the history and architecture that still fascinated her after a lifetime of exploration. New Orleans was the kind of place that one never tired of admiring. There was always some new aspect that drew one in, whether it was the varied architecture along the lushly landscaped streets or the ancient foreboding of the numerous cities of the dead. Or even the crumbling lanes and alleys in the less savory parts of town.

Good and evil shared this domain; only time would tell which would prove victorious. Or perhaps it was the ever-shifting balance that captivated visitors to this historical city.

Children between the ages of five and nine scurried through the towering main entrance of the Iris Goodman School as Darby swung off her bike and chained it to the rack near the front of the post-Civil War building. The prestigious elementary school had served this uptown neighborhood for nearly a hundred years and Darby for four. A private facility, the classroom sizes were small and the academic offerings large.

Her satchel banged against her thigh as she took the steps two at a time. She paused at the door and drew in a deep breath before entering the school. She did so love her position as kindergarten teacher. However, adopting the proper comportment was essential.

Inside the chatter and clatter made her smile. The smell of old books and history bolstered her sense of belonging. This was what she’d been born to do. Teaching the children…protecting them.

Uneasiness slid through her at that last thought. She swallowed back the anxiety that attempted to climb into her throat and strode determinedly to her room. Three or four of her charges were already storing backpacks in their cubbies.

“Good morning, boys and girls,” Darby offered as she settled her bag on her desk.

“Morning, Ms. Shepard,” echoed from the rear of the room.

Happiness bloomed in Darby’s chest as she watched more little ones filter into the room, leaving moms and dads waving from the door. She wiggled her fingers at the proud parents and wondered how it felt to have a child, to love and cherish it. It must be so hard to leave them at school, especially in the beginning.

She wondered then if she would ever know that feeling. Could she ever trust anyone enough to share herself that way? The hollow feeling she always experienced