Free Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer by Katie Alender

her.
    “Is tonight a special occasion?” I asked. “Or do you always reserve the VIP section?”
    He shrugged, grinning. “I like the privacy.”
    “Isn’t it … expensive?” I asked, catching myself too late to stop the question.
    “Hey, it’s just money.” He smiled at me in a way that meant, Right? And I realized that he assumed we were all wealthy. Probably because of the glaring extravagance of Hannah’s fur minicape. Or the way Pilar talked about her grand piano and her antique square piano and all the other pianos she was thinking about buying.
    “Well, thanks for inviting us to sit with you,” I said.
    “Of course,” he said, flashing his white teeth. “I had to, when I saw you.”
    “How did you notice us, out of everybody else here?”
    “Not you,” he said, swirling his finger around to indicate Pilar and Hannah’s empty chair. Then he pointed at me. “You.”
    I sat for a moment, completely shocked.
    And then he reached up and touched my arm in a motion that made my whole body feel tingly and warm. I thought for a second he was trying to hold my hand — and a warning sign flashed in my brain, in all caps, saying, DO NOT DO THIS. HANNAH WILL MURDER YOU . But I was too busy melting to stop him.
    “I noticed this .”
    Then I realized that he hadn’t been reaching for my arm — he was holding my medallion.
    “My medallion?” I said. “What is it? What does it mean?”
    He touched my arm again. And this time, it was a deliberate, lingering touch. It took my breath away.
    “It means you’re special,” he said quietly. “Like I am.”
    “Special,” I repeated. “Really?”
    “Yes. And perhaps soon we will have a chance to talk more about it.”
    Suddenly, a tiny mug appeared inches from my face.
    “Hey, Colette. Have a coffee.” Pilar’s words held a hint of approaching danger — Hannah. So I yanked my arm away from Armand and scrambled back to my own seat.
    Hannah slipped down next to Armand. “Did you miss me?”
    “Bien sûr.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Of course.”
    I was dying to ask Armand more about the medallion, but with Hannah latched on to him, it would be impossible. They resumed their conversation, Hannah glancing around the room, collecting bits of other people’s envy like seashells. ROCHELLE DUBOIS LEANED against the pile of pillows on her bed, pouting. Monique, her childhood friend, sat at the foot of the bed, tears streaming down her face.
    The tears offended Rochelle, who did not wish to be made to feel guilty for something that she thought of as “following her heart” (which sounded better than “stealing her best friend’s boyfriend”). Was it her fault that Giancarlo had grown bored with Monique? Was it Giancarlo’s fault that Monique had gained fifteen pounds, while Rochelle had stayed thin and beautiful?
    And now she and Giancarlo were — well, if not exactly “in love,” at least interested in each other.
    Rochelle had decided to take the high road and be honest with Monique about it, and look what that had gotten her! Une catastrophe totale. Just a bunch of sobbing and carrying on about betrayal and friendship and blah blah blah.
    “ Je te supplie ,” Monique blubbered. “Je te supplie, Rochelle!”
    Rochelle turned away and rolled her eyes. Begging? That was really taking things too far.
    She picked up the phone and texted Giancarlo to let him know that things were going worse than predicted. MONIQUE = PATHETIQUE .
    He replied: C’EST DOMMAGE .
    Then she set the phone down and opened her bedroom door, calling for the old butler. He appeared a minute later, peering in at Monique with a worried look on his face.
    Rochelle ordered him to take Mademoiselle Poirier home; she wasn’t feeling well.
    The old servant gave Rochelle a dirty look as he practically pried Monique out of the chair and herded her into the hallway, his ancient arm wrapped around her shoulder.
    As soon as she saw the family’s BMW pull away from