Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer Read Online Free PDF Page A

She and Peely were the only girls in our group with working phones.
    “Oh, here it is,” Hannah said, and read out loud. “‘Serial killer on the loose in Paris … Gabrielle Roux, up-and-coming model … Pierre Beauclerc, son of … some-French-name-I-can’t-pronounce Beauclerc.’”
    “A model?” Pilar asked. “That’s terrible.”
    Audrey peered at us, one eyebrow raised. “Only ugly people deserve to be killed?”
    Hannah waved her off.
    Alarmed voices rose up like a bunch of yelping puppies. Brynn wore an expression of worried disbelief. “Are we going to get … like … murdered?” she whispered.
    Madame Mitchell turned around. “Calm yourselves, ladies. I’m sure we’re all quite safe. However, this is a good reminder of how important it is to stay together as a group.”
    “Or you’ll get murdered,” Hannah added.
    “No!” the teacher said. “ Honestly , Ms. Norstedt.”
    Hannah gave me a wicked grin, and I couldn’t help grinning back.
    That was the thing about Hannah — she could be really funny.
    But that was also the thing about me when I was around Hannah. I laughed at her jokes, even when some deep, dark part of me didn’t think they were very funny at all.

    Eventually, we detoured across a bridge and turned onto a road that led us into Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the neighborhood where we’d be staying. It was made up of dozens of little avenues, all connected like a spiderweb.
    It was everything I’d pictured Paris to be — chic boutiques, little cafés, flower shops, and open counters selling baguettes. The narrow cobblestone roads bustled with people who hopped onto the itty-bitty sidewalks to avoid our van.
    We pulled to a stop on a tiny side street, hardly more than an alley.
    “Hôtel Odette,” the driver announced with a weary sigh.
    “You get the idea that these were the worst hours of his life,” Pilar said.
    “I bet he’d rather quit than drive us back to the airport,” I said.
    “I know being in the van is great and all,” Hannah said, “but could you two please move?”
    After I got my suitcase, I stopped to look around.
    The buildings were made of stone or smooth plaster and held little storefronts under apartments with curtains fluttering in their windows. I’d never been to a real city where you could just run downstairs and find grocery stores or a café. It felt so connected, so alive, as if the place were feeding off the energy of the people who lived in it.
    And the people were magical.
    I could have sat on a bench and watched them for hours — there was just something so perfectly Parisian about them. Even the little old ladies walking their tiny dogs had an extra “something” — a scarf or a pair of red boots or a baby-blue trench coat. The women dressed with great care but not the faintest trace of fussiness — they never looked overdone or like they were trying too hard. I was immediately inspired and ran through a mental list of the clothes I’d brought, planning modifications to look less like a girl from Ohio and more like a young mademoiselle from the sixth arrondissement .
    “Nice, right?” Pilar looked up at the buildings around us. “This is my favorite neighborhood in the whole city.”
    “I love it,” I said. It was mid-March, and the air was still crisp and cool, with a brisk breeze coming from the river. It ruffled my hair and brushed against my cheeks.
    “I knew you would,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I always thought you were like a French person. You have that je ne sais whatever .”
    I felt like a French person. I closed my eyes and inhaled the mingled scents of spring flowers and smoky sweetness from the tea shop two doors down. Even though I was in a foreign country halfway across the world, I felt weirdly like I belonged here … like I’d come home.
    “Come inside, girls,” Madame Mitchell said. “Let’s get settled.”
    Passing through an elaborate wrought-iron gate, we entered the tiny hotel.