Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer Read Online Free PDF

Inside were marble floors and fancy old chairs. To the right was a small restaurant with a sign that read CAFÉ ODETTE , and to the left was the reception desk. Madame Mitchell made a beeline for it.
    “Norstedt, Sanchez, Iselin,” she called a minute later. “Come get your room keys.”
    We were the only people staying three to a room — but that was because Hannah’s dad had decided that only the penthouse suite was good enough for his little princess. I’d be sleeping on the pullout sofa, but I didn’t mind. I wasn’t paying any extra, so I didn’t have any reason to expect a bedroom of my own.
    The clerk held out a little envelope marked 501 , with three keycards inside, and Hannah snatched it from her.
    “Meet in the café at eight for dinner,” Madame Mitchell said. “Peterson and Corbett, come get your keys.”
    Hannah, Pilar, and I started for the elevator — something I hadn’t considered. The penthouse was on the fifth floor. My mind raced for an excuse to take the stairs, but I couldn’t think of one.
    Finally, the door slid open. My heart sank even farther — it was the smallest elevator I’d ever seen, about the size of a bathroom stall.
    “Come on,” Peely said. “We’ll squish.”
    I hesitated.
    “Colette?” Hannah said.
    Just then, I heard voices behind me. Audrey and Brynn were rolling their bags over, talking animatedly about the city. I half-stepped out of their way, and they got into the elevator before noticing that I was standing there.
    “Oh, sorry,” Audrey said, seeing me. “We’ll get off and wait.”
    “Nah, forget it.” I rolled my bag over and shoved it in with the four of them. “Can you just get my bag, Peely? I’ll take the stairs.”
    “Sure,” Pilar said.
    I took a second to catch my breath, and then I started the long climb.
    When I reached the top, Pilar stuck her head out of a door and waved. She’d left my suitcase in the hall, near the elevator, so I took it with me. Still panting, I dropped onto the sofa.
    “That’s why you’re so thin, Colette,” Hannah said approvingly. “That, and you don’t just snack on whatever’s sitting around.”
    Pilar had already unwrapped a piece of chocolate from the fancy welcome basket on the coffee table. When Hannah turned away, she tossed the chocolate into the trash can. “Let’s explore,” she said.
    The penthouse was gorgeous, fit for a president or a queen. There were two bedrooms, each with a king-size bed piled with lush covers and overstuffed pillows, and its own bathroom, updated with gleaming white tiles and modern chrome fixtures. The living area was huge, with an additional bathroom off to the side and a beautiful flowered couch that converted to a pullout bed — the one I’d be using.
    It was incredible. And Hannah and Pilar, used to being fabulously wealthy, moved around it like they owned the place.
    While I, as usual, felt like a complete fraud.

    The cost of the trip included meals from the prix-fixe (fixed-price) menu in the hotel’s café. This was great for me, since I wouldn’t have to spend every meal thinking about cost. But for Hannah, who never stopped to think about the prix of anything, much less care if it was fixe -d or not, this was a fact worth sighing over.
    “So say a person didn’t want to drown herself in fat and carbs?” she said, staring dejectedly at the menu. “What then?”
    “I’m sure you can order from the regular menu,” I said.
    “Yeah — if a waiter would ever bother to come by,” she replied. “I meant to warn you, Colette. The service in France is dismal. And the waiters hate Americans.”
    Our waiter wasn’t dismal, nor did he seem to hate us — that is, until Hannah started bossing him around. Then he gazed down at us with a glare of disdain and took our orders without even the slightest hint of a smile. When he set our plates down with a series of unceremonious thunk s, I gazed at the food.
    I’d ordered a spinach and cheese quiche. Mom made