21. Jonah
TWENTY-ONE
Jonah
Wednesday, March 4
UAB Hospital
11:38 AM
I’m heading toward the elevator when I notice two uniformed officers standing at the nurses’ station. Their presence is unusual enough to catch my attention, but it’s the name that makes me stop in my tracks.
“Lila Bellinger,” I hear one of them say as he scribbles something on the small pad in his hand.
The sound of my sister’s name coming from the taller officer pulls me up short. I step closer, just out of their line of sight. My ears strain to catch the conversation.
“Our detectives were able to trace her to this emergency room,” the officer says. “We’re looking for her in connection with an ongoing investigation.”
I feel a sharp tug of anxiety but force myself to move, to approach the station as though I didn’t just overhear their conversation. My voice is steady when I speak. “Officers, I’m Dr. Jonah Bellinger. Can I help you?”
Both officers turn to face me, their expressions polite but guarded. The shorter one speaks first. “Dr. Bellinger, we were hoping to find Lila Bellinger. Do you know where we can reach her?”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face neutral. “She’s my sister,” I say carefully. “Why are you looking for her?”
The taller officer exchanges a glance with his partner before responding. “We’re investigating a recent string of crimes, and her name came up during our inquiries. It may be nothing, but we have to follow every lead. We need to ask her some questions.”
“Crimes?” I repeat, disbelief threading through my voice. “You’re mistaken. My sister wouldn’t?—”
“We’re not here to make assumptions, Dr. Bellinger,” the shorter officer interrupts, his tone even but firm. “We just need to speak with her. Will you please tell us where to find her?”
I frown, the tension in my chest tightening. “I'm sorry, I can't until you tell me what this is about.”
“I’m afraid we can’t share specific details with you,” the taller officer says, his tone firm but polite. “I'm sure a quick conversation with this will clear everything up.”
I glance around, noticing the sideways looks from nurses and colleagues nearby. The last thing I need is for this to become hospital gossip.
“She’s not here,” I say finally, my voice clipped. “She’s been staying with me while she recovers from an assault and then a subsequent collapsed lung.”
The officers exchange another glance, and I can feel the weight of their scrutiny pressing down on me.
“Can you confirm where she is now?” the shorter one asks.
I hesitate, my instinct to protect her warring with the realization that I can’t stonewall them forever. “She’s at my home, resting. I can pass along a message.”
The taller officer shakes his head. “We need to speak with her directly, Dr. Bellinger. If she’s at your residence, we can go there.”
Something sharp flares in my chest—anger, frustration, fear. “She’s recovering,” I say firmly. “If you need to question her, you’ll do it when she’s well enough to handle it—and with an attorney present.”
The shorter officer tilts his head slightly, his expression softening. “We understand your concern, Dr. Bellinger. If she’s innocent, answering a few questions now could clear her name quickly.”
My jaw clenches as I glance at the nurses hovering nearby, their curious gazes making my skin crawl.
“Not going to happen,” I say through gritted teeth. “If you want to formally question her, then she will come to the station with her attorney. End of discussion.”
The taller officer raises an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “We’ll make a note of that,” he says, his tone carefully neutral. “But understand that if we can’t reach her, we may need to escalate our approach.”
My stomach churns at the unspoken threat. “I'm sure you'll do whatever you think is appropriate. I've said she will speak to you in a formal setting with her attorney.”
The taller officer nods. “Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Bellinger. We’ll be in touch.”
The two of them turn to leave, and their footsteps fade down the hallway. I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the counter to steady myself. My mind races, replaying the conversation and dissecting their words. They didn’t say much, but the implications are enough to send my pulse pounding.
Whatever Lila’s gotten herself into, it’s serious enough for the cops to track her down. And now, I’m the one standing between her and whatever storm is headed our way.
1:41 PM
The tall glass panels surrounding the outdoor covered rooftop space are stifling today. The view of the city is a nice change from the white walls inside the doors and the incessant problems that keep stacking up in my life, but I still feel confined. All I can think about is getting done with this day so I can grill my sister on why cops are sniffing around my hospital.
“Hey, you,” Harper says as she sits down with a steaming cup and a tiny string attached to a tea bag. “You okay? You seemed stressed earlier when you texted me.”
I take a sip of my coffee, letting the heat settle in my chest. “I’m good. Stressed,” I say, my voice quieter than usual.
“That’s something I don’t expect to hear from the cool breeze, Dr. Bellinger. Want to talk about it?”
I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair. “It’s Lila,” I begin. “Cops showed up at the hospital earlier, asking about her. They didn’t say much—just that her name came up in connection with some crimes.”
Her brow furrows, concern flickering across her face. “Crimes? Holy shit. Are they going to arrest her?”
“Hell if I know,” I say, shaking my head. “They were trying to push their way into questioning her, but I put my foot down and said not without an attorney present. I know enough how these things go. I'm not going to let them twist her words or pin something on her.”
Harper leans forward with her hands still wrapped around her mug. “That's insane. I wonder what in the world they could want with her. Surely, it is nothing.”
“I'm not so sure,” I admit, rubbing a hand over my jaw. "She isn't exactly a saint."
"Jonah, I'm so sorry. I can't imagine how stressful this must be."
“Lila’s gambling is nothing new. It’s the reason she keeps running—and the reason I’ve spent years trying not to get pulled into her orbit. But here we are, and there’s no walking away this time.”
Harper’s expression softens slightly, but there’s a sharpness to her voice when she speaks. “And when she showed up here, did you ask her any questions?”
I glance at her, a flicker of defensiveness sparking in my chest. “Of course, I asked questions. As you might have figured out, Bellingers aren't the best at communication. I didn't get a whole lot, but I knew she was running from something. Or someone.”
“Hopefully, this is a big misunderstanding,” Harper says gently but firmly. “There isn't much you can do for her but be there for her.”
“I told her when I found out she had a gambling debt that I would take care of it for her," I blurt out. I hadn't planned to share this with her. At least like this. "It’s a lot. Please keep it between us, but she owes almost eighty-thousand dollars.”
“Jesus, Jonah. I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds by saying this, but that is a lot of fucking money. Are you really planning to clear her debt for her?”
I set my mug down with a little more force than intended, the ceramic clinking against the table. “What’s the alternative, Harper? Let her get killed by whoever beat her up last time? Let her sit in prison? She doesn’t have anyone. My parents have never helped her. Someone has to.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver, even as my tone sharpens. “I understand why you feel that way, but Jonah, think about it. How will that solve anything? She needs help, and not that kind of help.”
I shake my head, the frustration bubbling under my skin. “She told me she is willing to get help. She's even found a rehab that will take insurance once she heals from the assault. If I pay her debt, she can have a clean slate.”
"Curious—has she said that before?”
“Said what before?”
“Has she said before that she's willing to get help?”
I can't count the number of times, I want to say. It's part of the reason I don't know much about where she is at any given time. I can't survive in that chaotic cycle, so I remove myself and trust she is okay. Out of sight, out of mind. It's likely why none of us in our family speak to each other or have a relationship.
"Once or twice," I fib. It feels like surrender if I tell her the accurate number of times she’s made promises. That Harper has only known her a short time and already has her number, and I've known her for her entire life and still believe her every time, is a whole other issue entirely.
“And what happened in the past, when she said she planned to get help?” Harper counters. “Does it ever stop? Because, the little I know about addiction, it rarely takes just one shot to overcome. What's to stop her from wracking up another debt once you clear this one?”
I look away as my eyes trace the distant skyline. “I don't know, Harper,” I say finally, my voice quieter. “I tell myself it’s not my fault, that I can’t undo the choices she’s made. But there’s always that voice in the back of my head, whispering that I should’ve done more. That I should’ve been better.”
“Jonah,” she says softly, cutting through the spiral of guilt. “You can’t blame yourself for her choices. You can only control what you do now.”
“And what I’m doing now is trying to keep her safe,” I say, meeting her gaze. “That’s all I can do.”
Harper sighs, her expression caught somewhere between compassion and exasperation. “What about you? What happens to you if you keep carrying this alone?”
I look at her, and for a moment, I want to tell her everything. About the weight I’ve carried for years, about how guilt has shaped every decision I’ve ever made. But the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I get angry.
I shift the conversation. I can feel the familiar urge to push her away, and I'm trying with all I have to resist the urge.
“My family’s not exactly a picture of closeness,” I say, the bitterness slipping through.
She nods but doesn't say anything.
“My older brother, Eddie, lives in Vail, Colorado. He does odd jobs to support his skiing obsession.” I pause, running a hand through my hair. “He’s as disconnected as they come. And then there’s my parents. We talk on holidays, mostly out of obligation.”
I glance at Harper as the words spill out before I can stop them. “I left South Carolina seventeen years ago and never looked back.”
Harper watches me carefully. Her voice is gentler now. “Maybe that’s why you’re trying so hard with Lila. Because she’s here. Because it feels like something you can fix.”
I lean back and try to look more at ease than I am. The weight of her words settle in my chest like a stone. “Yeah, well, fixing things is what I do, Harper,” I say flatly, avoiding her gaze. “That's how our family operates.”
Her brow furrows, and she hesitates before responding. “I’m not saying it’s easy. Or fair. Life Is fucking hard sometimes. But you have to know you don't have to fix anyone or take care of anyone.”
I know she means well. I can see it in the way her gaze softens, in the way she keeps her tone calm and measured. But the words still grate against something raw in me. It’s not like I don’t know she’s right. I’ve thought about it a hundred times. But knowing it and living it are two very different things.
I force myself to take a breath and swallow the sharp reply on my tongue. She’s trying to help. She means well. But what she doesn’t understand is that fixing things is the only way I know how to atone for my sins. If I don't, then I don't deserve any happiness in life.
I glance at my watch, a convenient excuse to break the moment. “I've got to go scrub in,” I say with a flat voice. “Thanks for listening. I'll keep you posted if I learn anything.”
Harper hesitates, then leans forward. Her hand brushes and grabs at mine. The touch is gentle and grounding, but I pull away. “Okay. Just... don’t shut me out, Jonah. Whatever you need, I’m here,” she says softly as I stand. “I’m here for you.”
Her words are sincere, I'm sure, but they feel patronizing. I nod because it’s the only response I can manage, but the knot in my throat grows.
“Thank you,” I say, and then I walk back inside the hospital, leaving her sitting at the table.
What I was hoping would be a pressure release by talking to her only made me feel worse.