Proof The Bible Is True

For the hundredth time I glanced over my shoulder on my way to work. The business quarter was full of men in suits carrying briefcases, women in tailored skirts and sensible shoes.

It was the same crowd I moved among Monday through Friday, but this particular morning I sensed danger lurking at every turn. The night before I’d had a horrible dream, and I couldn’t seem to shrug it off.

It wasn’t like me to be so fearful. I was in my 20s, doing administrative work in downtown New Orleans. The city had been experiencing a rise in violent crime, but I used my common sense and didn’t take risks.

The building where I worked was secure. At least that’s what I told myself as I walked inside. A man held the door for me and flashed a smile. I looked at his eyes. No, those weren’t the eyes from my dream.

Before I’d seen anything in the dream, I’d heard my father’s voice: “Zsa-Ree!” He always shortened my French name, Jeanne Marie. No one had called me that since he died.

“Daddy?” I said in my dream. “Is that you?” But instead I came face-to-face with a pair of dark, menacing eyes. Criminal eyes, I thought to myself. Cold and deadly. I froze in fear.

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