Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer

by Katie Alender

  He waited until I was sitting, and then he sat down. He reached over and took my hand, then let it go — then grabbed it again.

  “Please,” I said, beginning to feel light-headed with worry. “Just say it.”

  Jules took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you are aware, but there has been talk of a serial killer on the loose in Paris. There have been many murders, all committed the same way —”

  “Yes, yes,” I cut him off. I knew all about the murders — you could hardly walk down the street without passing blaring headlines and photos of the glamorous victims. And it went beyond that, in a way — I felt as if the news of the murders was somehow following me.

  “There has been another death….” Jules swallowed. “Colette, it was Armand.”

  “What?” I said, my voice echoing through the lobby. “What?”

  “He was murdered in his flat early this morning. I’m so sorry. I know you and he were …” Jules spun his hands, looking for the right words. “You were …”

  “I keep trying to tell you, we weren’t anything.” Even though I was stunned, I could say that much.

  Jules exhaled for what felt like ten seconds.

  I felt itchy, like my whole body was being bitten by ants. “Are you serious, Jules? He’s dead?”

  “He was found this afternoon by his housekeeper.” Jules tapped on the screen of his phone and handed it to me. I couldn’t read the headline on the French news website, but it was clear enough — I saw Armand’s name. And his picture.

  My hands were shaking so badly I was afraid I’d drop the phone, so I gave it back to Jules. “And how did it … I mean, what was …”

  “Like the others.” He glanced away. “His head …”

  The head. She is cut off.

  “No way,” I said. “Oh my God. Oh my God, does Hannah know?”

  Jules blinked at me. “I’m not sure.”

  “How am I going to tell her? She was the one who really liked him.” It would destroy her. Or it would turn her into a raging beast who, desperate with grief, destroyed everything around her….

  Either way, destruction was imminent.

  “Could Pilar help you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Or your teacher?”

  I shook my head. “She doesn’t know we sneaked out and met a French boy.”

  Jules looked uncomfortable. He put his hands in his pockets. “I suppose I could go with you.”

  I appreciated the offer, but I sincerely believed that his presence would make things worse. God forbid Hannah start wailing about how it should have been Jules.

  “No,” I said, standing up before I lost my nerve. “I have to do it.”

  “Do you want me to wait for you?” He stood up, too.

  “You’d better not,” I said. “This could take a while.”

  STÉPHANIE VOCLAIN COCHER leaned out the fourth-floor window, cradling her camera in her hands, and held her breath. She snapped off a few exposures and then reviewed the pictures.

  Good — the second one was in focus. It would be a great “don’t” picture for her street-fashion blog — demonstrating the ugliness of too-short pants.

  From the time she was a child, shopping with her mother at Le Bon Marché, Stéphanie had known she had an eye for fashion. It wasn’t that she was particularly careful of what she wore — mostly she stuck to jeans and simple sweaters, with a pair of flats — but she always seemed to be able to spot the fashion missteps of the people around her. That, combined with her ability to make razor-sharp comments deriding those missteps, had made her the leading authority on fashion among the students at her school, and now brought readers thronging to her blog.

  Being able to come up with the precise statement to express the contemptible cluelessness of other people was a true gift.

  Stéphanie checked her watch. Her friends were supposed to be arriving soon so they could all get lunch together. She sat down at her computer and started typing, hoping that she might have time to finish a blog post before they showed up.

  Next to the keyboard, her cell phone buzzed with an incoming text: FIVE MINUTES LATE.

  She was relieved. Now she would have time to get the short-pants post up on the blog. She rubbed at a smudge on her arm — likely from leaning against the window frame — and turned back to the computer.

  What should she say? Perhaps something like, Where’s the flood? Or maybe, You know the economy is in trouble when they start selling pants by the centimeter?

  There was a sound behind her, but she ignored it, thinking it was the cat.

  Another sound. Still, she focused on the screen in front of her.

  And yet another noise —

  “Va-t’en, chat!” she shouted, turning around in her chair.

  Stéphanie sat frozen, looking at the woman in her bedroom. She wore an exquisite ball gown, a powdered wig, and a scornful expression. How had she gotten in?

  “Ah …” Stéphanie blinked. “Bonjour?”

  The woman moved closer.

  Stéphanie stood up and backed toward the window.

  “La fille de la famille Voclain,” the woman whispered, her face a ghostly gray color.

  Above Stéphanie’s bed was a samurai sword that her father had smuggled into the country from Japan. The priceless object was mounted on a polished piece of wood, its sheath below it.

  As Stéphanie tried to get as far from the woman as possible, she heard rattling — the sword was coming loose from its mount.

  The woman glared at her through eyes of icy-blue hatred.

  Without stopping to think, Stéphanie ran for the window and threw herself out of it, crashing down to the street three stories below.

  I KNOCKED ON the door of the suite, and Pilar came and opened it, eating from a tiny bag of cookies she’d bought from the minibar.

  “You look like you just ran a marathon,” she said.

  “I took the stairs.” I leaned against the wall near the door to catch my breath.

  “Hannah’s in a terrible mood,” Peely whispered. “Armand hasn’t texted her back. And she’s been texting him all day.”

  I nodded, gathered my courage, and rounded the corner.

  Hannah sat with her knees pulled up to her chest in the middle of the couch. The television was off and the room was silent. Poor Peely had probably been stuck here like this since they got back from the Eiffel Tower.

  Bored and quiet.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You’ve been a busy little bunny today.” Hannah sniffed, but didn’t look up at me.

  She was searching for something on her phone. “Did you have fun with the Loser Brigade?”

  “Hannah, I —”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said. “Just be careful. You know what they say — if you roll in dog poo, when you get up, you’re covered in dog poo.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard those particular words of wisdom.

  I sat down on the side chair. “I have to tell you something.”

  My hands were sweating, and my heart thump-thump-thumped in my chest. I began to suspect that the news of Armand’s death hadn’t really sunk in for me yet … and if I didn’t spit it out, I’d miss my chance to say it with any composure.

  Hannah peered at me, suspicious. “I don’t know why you even want to —”

  “Armand’s dead,” I said.

  Hannah closed her mouth.

  Pilar wandered over and sat on the arm of the couch until Hannah turned to her and snapped, “Were you raised in a barn?”

  Peely popped up as if the couch were on fire.

  I pressed on. “I don’t know many of the details, except —”

  “You are so not funny, Colette.” Hannah’s eyes burned as she looked at me. “This is so not funny.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s not a joke.”

  Even as I spoke, she was typing his name into her phone’s web browser.

  I took a deep breath.
“I guess his housekeeper —”

  Hannah’s scream cut me off. Pilar and I exchanged alarmed looks and converged on the couch. But Hannah was up in a heartbeat, yelling and screeching and swearing. She knocked a lamp off an end table and threw the bowl of chocolates at the wall. She upset the umbrella stand and then started kicking the back of the side chair. There was a huge ripping sound as the fabric gave way, and finally Pilar pulled her away and back onto the couch.

  “I’ll get some water,” I said, standing and going to the minifridge.

  Hannah curled into a ball, sobbing. Pilar took the bottle of water from me.

  “Here you go,” she said, lightly rubbing Hannah’s back. “Have a sip.”

  “No!” Hannah yelled, jumping up again. But instead of racing around trying to pull the room apart, she zeroed in on me. “How did you know? How did you know before me?”

  “Jules told me,” I said. “I saw him in the lobby.”

  “He couldn’t come here and tell me himself?” she cried. “He couldn’t be a man? He’s such a boy! Such a stupid little boy!”

  Then she collapsed, bawling her eyes out.

  Pilar and I spent the rest of the evening being battered and abused like a pair of flags left out in a blizzard. When Hannah finally cried herself to sleep on the couch, we were so exhausted that we didn’t even change into our pajamas. We just flopped onto Peely’s bed. Pilar dozed off almost immediately, but even in my bleary-eyed, bleary-brained haze, there was a spark of alertness that kept me awake for hours, until I finally passed out.

  The woman on the settee looks up when she senses me approaching, and her smile is genuine. The man at her side stands to give me his seat, and I look into his golden eyes and feel a thrill of dread.

  “Duchesse,” he murmurs, before bowing and backing away, to leave us alone.

  “Ah, ma très chère amie,” the woman says, extending her arm. Her fingers uncurl gracefully, and I kiss her hand and curtsy. She slides over and makes room for me on the sofa.

  It’s hard to get comfortable. And it’s hard to relax, knowing every move we make is being studied. There’s no getting away from it, though. People will always be watching her. And tonight, many of them are watching me, as well.

  She takes a moment to sit up even straighter, to toss her hair haughtily over her shoulder. She, at least, will not show that she is afraid.

  But she should be afraid.

  I lean closer.

  I want to get away from here and take the woman with me. There is something I’m desperate to tell her …

  But when I look around the room, I see eyes on me — steely, burning gazes, heavy with meaning … and warning. The faces that watch me are faces I know as well as I know my own — Thérèse with her red curls, Laurent with his chiseled jaw and jet-black hair. They are like brothers and sisters to me — but I have never seen them look at me like this before.

  I sit back once again, the weight of my unspoken words crushing my chest like a vise.

  My friend turns to look at me. “Nous n’avons pas beaucoup de temps,” she whispers. She takes my hand and squeezes it. The gesture is full of love and trust … and despair. “Ah, Véronique, ma chère … que faisons-nous?”

  “ARE YOU AWAKE?”

  Hannah’s voice, stuffy and hoarse, woke me.

  She stood in the doorway of Pilar’s room, freshly showered, her hair wet and combed out. Her face was pink and puffy, and her pale eyes looked vividly bright beneath her swollen eyelids.

  I propped up on one elbow, confused. The name Véronique echoed in my head, and I needed to stop and think before I forgot what it meant. Already, I was forgetting. “Um … what time is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was 6:45 a.m. Pilar lay next to me, arms over her face, snoring lightly.

  “I’m hungry,” Hannah said. “I was going to order room service but I thought it might be better to get some fresh air.”

  “Peely’s asleep,” I said. “But I’ll come.”

  I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and pulled my hair back into a sloppy bun. Hannah was wearing a simple white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, with a six-hundred-dollar blue wool peacoat. She pulled on a hat knit from thick white yarn and a matching scarf. I was still wearing the clothes I’d slept in, but I grabbed my coat, scarf, and hat, and we descended the stairs together.

  “You always take the stairs, everywhere?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I can’t believe I’ve never noticed.” She was silent for a few seconds, contemplating this.

  I was only half paying attention to her. In my mind, I was thinking, Véronique … And there was a question. Some question. I reached for it the way you reach for an itch in the center of your back.

  Véronique … ma chère …

  “What are we to do?” I said suddenly, the words slipping out of my mouth.

  Hannah thought I was talking to her. She tugged on my sleeve. “I don’t want to go to the hotel café. Is that all right?”

  The shock of finding the phrase in my memory left me momentarily speechless. “Yeah, sure.”

  “We can probably find something good to eat in one of the places around here.”

  “Definitely.”

  She walked out ahead of me — not quite holding the door open behind her, but careful not to let it shut in my face. The shock of the cold morning stole the breath from my mouth for a moment.

  Hannah didn’t react. She was in her own little universe. “Which way?”

  I shrugged and pointed to the left, toward the small hub of streets lined with tiny shops and restaurants. The cafés were all open, the buttery scent of pastries wafting out their doorways. Hannah stopped in front of one at random and gestured for me to go inside.

  Véronique, my dearest one … what are we to do?

  We got in line and ordered croissants. Hannah ordered a coffee and I ordered a chocolat chaud, a steaming hot chocolate that came in a little pitcher along with an empty coffee cup. We sat at a table just outside of the door, and I poured the chocolate into the cup. Then we wrapped our cold hands around our warm drinks and watched the Parisians walk by. I nibbled on my croissant, which was hot and flaky.

  “I can’t believe he’s really gone,” Hannah said.

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t really believe it, either, except that it was a fact.

  “Do you think he —” She cut herself off. Her pale skin had gone white. “I mean, I hope he wasn’t too scared.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me. I guess I’d never thought of Armand as a person who could be scared — he was too cool, too smooth. But was there a moment when he knew he was doomed? I thought of his golden eyes wild with fear and my heart skipped a beat. The realization that he was really, truly dead seeped a bit farther under my skin and made the sun seem one shade brighter.

  “I wonder if he thought of me,” Hannah said, setting her coffee cup on the table and covering her face with her hands. “I would have been thinking about him.”

  That was when I started to think that what Hannah had felt for Armand was something real.

  Maybe she was controlling. Maybe she could be snooty and snappy and snarly. But she was a human being with real feelings, and she was in pain.

  I didn’t want to think ill of the dead, but it made the way Armand toyed with her even more offensive. And all for what? Just so he could tell his friends he’d made some American teenager fall in love with him — and the whole time, he’d been pursuing someone else? Impossibly, that someone else was me. And though our relationship had been mostly based on the Order of the Key and Armand’s crazy plan to restore us to our noble places in society, there was no point lying to myself — there had been something else behind his interest. Even if he’d mostly been interested in persuading me to help him, he’d still been intrigued by me.

  So then why play with Hannah?

  The answer hit me like a brick to the head:

 
Because Hannah could control me.

  Because when I went back to Ohio, Hannah would be right there, urging me to pursue my rightful title as a duchess. If she let it slide, I would have let it slide, too. It would have been a cool little blip in my life, something I’d eventually tell my grandchildren. But with Hannah’s influence, I couldn’t let it go, not without massively angering her and losing my social footing.

  I was the puppet. Hannah was the strings.

  And Armand had been making us dance.

  When we got back to the penthouse, Pilar was sitting on the sofa and watching an English-language news channel.

  The anchorwoman sat up straight and put on her “serious” face.

  “Shocking new developments in the Parisian serial killings … Authorities have confirmed that a woman who survived a murder attempt appears to have been targeted by the same killer responsible for several other deaths in the city this week.”

  I looked up. And Hannah was staring at the screen, too.

  Next to her, a graphic popped up — the photograph of a college-aged girl.

  “The young woman, a third-year student at the International Fashion Institute in Paris, is in stable condition at Saint Marina Hospital after being attacked by an unknown assailant in her apartment. She reported to police that the assailant was waiting for her in her home, and only by jumping six meters to the ground from an open window was she able to avoid the terrible fate experienced by the other victims. Police say the girl is very fortunate not to have suffered any serious injuries, though she is being kept under observation due to severe shock.”

  They cut to a shaky phone video of a girl being loaded into an ambulance. She was young and very pretty, but what drew my eye was her forearm. On the skin between her elbow and wrist, I could clearly see a dark, elongated smudge …

  Just like the one on Armand’s arm. The one that, because I could see it, meant we were “connected.”

  “The victim has been identified as Stéphanie Voclain Cocher,” the newscaster said.

  I sat back.

  Voclain. The name was familiar — because it had been on the list, the one I’d seen on the plaque.