She kept a small leather notebook in her attaché case, full of all the minutia of her life. Those details filled the book, from family birthdays to her neighbors’ names to various security and tax information. She’d long laughed at herself for the attachment to a paper device, but there was something about the well-worn leather that comforted. Especially the pages in the front of the book that still held her mother’s careful script. She ran a light finger over the faded ink that outlined all the pertinent details on their New York home before flipping to the pages that detailed the house in Paris. Monsieur and Madame Dufresne lived on one side of her and an aged widower, Monsieur Tremaine, on the other. Tremaine was a lovely old man who spent the majority of his time in the South of France. He was also the first house hit and likely was used for practice, his frequent absences making him an easier mark. Abby shifted her muzzy thoughts to the Dufresnes.
