From "Saturday Requiem" by Nicci French: Penguin Books, 2017 ============================================================ p.11: In the past few months, ever since the last terrible summer, she [Frieda] had taken pleasure from the steady pattern of her life: her little mews house with its open fire, ... Gradually the horror had receded and now it stood far off, on the rim of her consciousness.[EP] p.13: She [Frieda] walked fast, and soon was at Number Nine [her house], enveloped in its warmth, the smell of coffee and fresh bread. She pushed the thought of Thursday evening away from her.[EP] p.217: [NP] It took her [Frieda] many hours to get to sleep and then before it was light she woke again suddenly and sat up in bed, alert and with a feeling of excitement. It was as if someone had shaken her, or a sound had disturbed her. But she was alone and the room was quiet, just the sound of wind outside and in the distance the faint hum of traffic. And yet she knew that something had woken her. A thought, an idea, a memory. [NP] She pulled her duvet up to her chin and closed her eyes, thinking, concentrating, trying to remember, trying to hold on to the shape that was just at the edge of her vision,, sliding back into the shadows. And then, like a flash of brightness, she had it. She looked at the clock by her bed and saw it was nearly three. ... [S]he knew that she wouldn't go back to sleep, not with this shimmer in her brain.[EP]