The Paris Apartment
Blake Moran stared out at the sky as he fought the urge to close his eyes. The constant hum of the airplane would lull him to sleep if he let it. Although it was a battle against his own circadian rhythms, he refused to give in because of the nightmares.
"Paris is much more dangerous than New York," their parents had told them countless times.
They should have listened.
Both his mother and father had to fly to France just to get Meredith on the plane home.
Now, even as Fox Business was being displayed on the television mounted onto the cabin wall, his father flipped through the newspaper. His mother sat quietly in her seat as she read the last chapters of the first novel on her summer list. On the surface, it seemed like any other flight with Fred and Edie Moran. But this time Jacob took the seat across from his father. They talked in hushed tones as his mother stroked Meredith's arm, only stopping to turn the page of her book.
"Have your parents contacted the insurance company?"
Blake lounged on the sofa. The leather was cool against his skin. It was usually refreshing, but today, as he stared at his zonked sister, it sent a chill up his spine.
"We didn't discuss it," Jacob whispered to Fred.
The atmosphere of today's flight contrasted with the bubbly moods of the plane's passengers as they'd flown East on Monday morning. Even in the bluest of blue skies, a dark cloud surrounded the plane.
"This shouldn't have happened to her," his father said as he shook his head.
For the past five years, they'd flown from New York to Paris for the Roland-Garros finals. This year, instead of leaving the Hamptons for the apartment on Rue de la Pompe, their parents had flown down to D.C. to attend a funeral.
His father was right, this shouldn't have happened.
It had only been two weeks since he'd arrived home from his first year at Harvard. The house was divided by his sister and parents' beloved Bulldogs and his Crimson. And though his father still laid into him about his college decision, he liked to tease about the Ivy League rivalry. "Come twist the bulldog's tail, we'll win once more! For Harvard's back at New Haven, hark to their mournful wail!" Blake had wanted to be different. "For poor old Yale!" Throughout his junior year, he'd met at least once a month with his counselors. He'd sent his SAT scores to Yale's admission team to appease his father, but if he were being honest, his parents' alma mater hadn't even made the list of his top choices of schools.
Blake watched as Meredith stirred, but having taken a couple of heavy-duty beta-blockers, he knew she wouldn't wake until they reached the States.
His sister proved to be an even bigger people pleaser than him. He supposed the shared quality was because of a similar need for validation. It stemmed from a childhood of their feelings being ignored. While it seemed that Meredith made it a point to make their parents happy by fitting their mold, Blake believed that following in their footsteps gave her a sense of meaning that he too craved. She'd had her sights set on Yale since seven when they'd begun taking trips up to New Haven for Saturday football games. "Bulldog! Bulldog!" She'd sat on their father's lap.
"Why does this happen to us?"
His sister's face flashed behind his eyes. Even without succumbing to sleep, the nightmares had found him.
As they had for the past five years, they'd left the Hamptons for Paris.
"They had a gun, Blake."
The blue skies, decent temperatures, and ocean breezes of Memorial Day Weekend felt like a fever dream.
MDW was one of the two weekends of the year that his family spent in Southampton. Friends returned home as they and half of New York flocked East for the unofficial start of summer.
There'd been boat rides, rounds of golf, pickleball tournaments, and tennis matches for some. In previous summers, Meredith had racked up over 11k in bets on her win. As she recovered from a shoulder injury this holiday, she'd left the aggressive serves to him.
The streets were decked out with American flags. The window displays of the mom-and-pop shops showcased Tervis tumblers, dessert plates, and beach towels— all red, white, and blue. Women wore the iconic Ralph Lauren flag sweater while men stuck to the classic navy blazer.
In past years there'd been mischief, but this MDW was kept lowkey. Mornings were spent drinking strong coffee and reading out on the patio in their pajamas. Afternoons involved lazily laying out by the pool and throwing a tennis ball for the golden retrievers. Take-out was ordered from Nick and Toni's in the evenings, followed by a stroll along the beach. And nights consisted of drives in the convertible and blaring ABBA and Kayne West as their friends took sharp turns too fast in their Jeep Wranglers.
They'd had a blast as the stresses of school melted away.
There'd been a party with their parents' group of friends in Bridgehampton on Sunday. Young children splashed in the pool while teens snuck beers between friendly games of tennis. Fathers laughed as they putted on the backyard practice green. Mothers gossiped in bunches both inside and out of the Halley summertime home. Blake had found himself somewhere in the middle.
He'd sipped from a glass as he'd watched Meredith, his mother, and Kelly Thompson gawk at Sam Koch's wife openly breastfeed their youngest. "California turned them." He'd heard a handful of whispered comments about the couple's time on the West Coast. "They came home dazed, sunburnt, and lacking decency." He'd returned to the putting green before he'd overheard any more.
In the end, after suitcases had been repacked and they had bid goodbye to the ocean, they'd boarded a plane for Paris while his parents flew down to D.C., leaving three young adults to their own devices until Saturday.
"Meredith!" He'd pushed his way past officers into the bedroom. He saw her flinch as he reached out, but she took his hand after a moment. "What happened?"
"It was worse than seeing Mom and Daddy in the office," she'd cried.
There'd been a robbery when he was ten. Meredith had been twelve when she'd witnessed bullets barely miss heads, and bullets graze arms… Bullets would forever appear in their nightmares.
"It happened so fast, Blake."
Cobblestones, Café de Flore, and shopping at Saint Laurent. Paris was a dream, but it was much more dangerous than even New York.
Jacob had caught a train to St. Tropez after breakfast on Wednesday morning to meet friends. He wouldn't return until Thursday evening. Alone, the Moran siblings had spent the day in and out of shops, sipping shots of espresso, and museum hopping. After a late dinner out at Drouant, Meredith had opted for a quiet night in while he'd headed for the clubs.
"Why does this happen to us?"
"Money talks while wealth whispers," Edie Moran preached. The family was never overly flashy. Logos were tacky. Monogrammed purses like LV were a symbol of status, and the Morans didn't need to prove themselves because "wealth recognizes wealth." Other than the classic Goyard tote, Hermès handbag, and a few other recognizable pieces, someone had to be familiar with fashion to put a price tag on their clothing.
"Why does this happen to us?"
For the most part, his sister didn't care about being showy.
He'd been out at a club when he'd gotten the call. Meredith had been hysterical, and he hadn't been able to make sense of her words. But once he'd heard the word gun, he'd pushed through the crowd of people.
His father was right, this shouldn't have happened.
The police had already been at the apartment on Rue de la Pompe when he'd arrived. She'd been hyperventilating, holding a towel to her chest as she spoke with an officer.
"He held a gun to my head, Blake. And he—"
She'd been in hysterics over the ring— a vintage Harry Winston engagement ring that had been passed down through four generations of Klines. It was a seven-carat emerald cut diamond that cost over a quarter of a million dollars. It suited Meredith perfectly.
"I need Jacob," she'd told him.
Jacob had proposed in April. He'd taken Meredith out on an early morning boat ride in Connecticut and popped the big question. His sister was stubborn, and, in the past, she'd talked about waiting until she finished undergrad before becoming engaged, but he'd never seen her happier as she'd stepped off the boat. Though they wouldn't marry until she graduated from business school, the wedding planning was set to begin this fall.
Fox Business was still being displayed on the television and Blake tried to focus on this morning's drop in the stock market instead of thinking about what happened in the Kline's Paris apartment. But even without succumbing to sleep, the nightmares had found him.
"He held a gun to my head, Blake. And he—"
His sister's face flashed behind his eyes.
His mother had tried to assure him that Meredith would be okay, but she was supposed to be okay that night she'd nearly died from an untreated eating disorder. She was supposed to be okay on that Tuesday in February when she'd overdosed during her first year of college. And she was supposed to be okay when she'd opted for a quiet night in at the apartment on Rue de la Pompe.
This shouldn't have happened.
She'd been wearing nothing but a towel as he'd pushed his way past officers into the bedroom.
"Meredith, did anything else happen?"
Blake had been halfway to drunk when he'd gotten the call at the club, but he knew that he saw her flinch when he'd reached out.
"No," she'd said.
She'd covered herself after she'd caught him staring at the bruises on her skin.
"No," she'd said before she'd cried for her fiancé.
Maybe she was telling the truth. Or maybe what happened in the Paris apartment would be another secret that she took to the grave.
"Dad," Blake muttered. When his father turned in his seat he said, "there was a reporter outside on the street this morning."
Fred stared over the top of his glasses. "That's been handled."
He nodded.
Fred Moran would do anything to keep this private.
Blake's attention turned back to the sky.
When they touched down in New York, they would be informed that the police have a lead on a handful of suspects. On Sunday, between watching the tennis match that they were meant to be attending and phone calls with therapists, they would find out that the property history of the apartment on Rue de la Pompe and their family's name had been found in the perpetrators' search history.
"We suspect that the two men had been watching them since they'd arrived," the police would tell their father.
Their parents had told them countless times that "Paris is much more dangerous than New York."
They should have listened.
The Klines were out a vintage Harry Winston engagement ring that had been passed down through four generations. A seven-carat emerald cut diamond that cost over a quarter of a million dollars had been taken right from his sister's finger. It was a family heirloom and it suited Meredith perfectly.
Jacob had rushed back, abandoning friends in St. Tropez to comfort his fiancé. "A ring can be replaced. You can't," he'd said, but that didn't stop Meredith from becoming hysterical.
The police had hopes of tracking it down. The engagement party was scheduled for early August before they returned to school. For his sister's sake, he hoped that they found it.
"He held a gun to my head, Blake. And he—"
After tugging a blanket over his shoulder, Blake Moran closed his eyes. The constant hum of the airplane would lull him to sleep if he let it. Giving up the battle against his own circadian rhythms, he gave in because even without succumbing to sleep, the nightmares had found him.
