The Medication That Wasn’t His
Chapter 02 - The Medication That Wasn’t His
The next morning, Jonah refused breakfast.
Stella put it in front of him anyway.
“Eggs.”
“No.”
“Protein.”
“No.”
“Coffee.”
He looked at the mug.
“Black?”
“No sugar.”
He took it.
Progress.
The mansion had been under internal lockdown since Victor’s visit.
Frankie doubled guards.
Every employee badge had been reviewed.
The bug beneath the panic console had no fingerprints.
Someone had cleaned it.
Jonah hated uncertainty more than pain.
Stella could see that now.
She had begun noticing things about him she had not been paid to notice.
The way his right hand trembled more when he was angry.
The way he watched doors when people entered.
The way his eyes lowered whenever a caregiver transfer made him physically dependent on another person.
He had learned to make vulnerability look like boredom.
That morning, Dr. Elias Aris arrived for neurological review.
Late fifties. Calm voice. Expensive coat.
He greeted Stella.
Then Jonah.
“Any increase in spasms?”
“Yes,” Stella answered.
Jonah looked at her.
“What?”
“You were going to say no.”
“I was going to say manageable.”
“You nearly bit through the bed rail.”
Dr. Aris hid a smile.
“Stella is right to tell me.”
Jonah’s eyes narrowed.
“Everybody enjoys being right in my house.”
Stella folded her arms.
“You could try it sometime.”
Something moved in his cheek.
Almost amusement.
Dr. Aris increased Jonah’s baclofen slightly.
Then reviewed blood pressure, skin integrity, hand weakness, respiratory function.
Clinical things.
Necessary things.
But when Stella asked about the original injury, both men changed.
“How high was the lesion?”
“T4 incomplete,” Aris said.
“Incomplete?”
Jonah answered.
“Some sensory preservation. No useful motor function below the chest.”
Stella looked at him.
“Then rehab prognosis isn’t absolute.”
“No.”
Dr. Aris’s voice became careful.
“But meaningful walking recovery is very unlikely.”
Jonah looked at the window.
There.
The sentence he had heard too many times.
Stella did not say miracles happen.
She did not say never give up.
She hated those phrases in hospitals.
Instead:
“Then our goals stay function, independence, skin protection, spasticity control, shoulder preservation.”
Jonah looked at her.
“Yes.”
The respect in his eyes deepened.
Dr. Aris packed his bag.
Before leaving, he paused near Stella.
“Can I speak to you?”
Jonah’s jaw tightened.
Stella noticed.
“About what?”
“Medication timing.”
They stepped into the hall.
Dr. Aris lowered his voice.
“Has he had episodes of unusual confusion?”
“No.”
“Excessive sedation?”
“Not with me.”
“Falls asleep after evening dose?”
“Sometimes.”
Aris looked thoughtful.
“What?”
He hesitated.
“His blood work last month showed a concentration slightly higher than expected.”
“Baclofen?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Could be metabolism.”
“Could be dosing.”
“Yes.”
Stella’s nursing brain woke fully.
“Who handled medication before I arrived?”
“Agency nurses.”
“And household staff?”
“Locked cart. Frankie has emergency access.”
Stella looked back toward the study.
“You think someone overmedicated him.”
“I think nothing yet.”
“That is doctor language for yes.”
Aris gave her a tired smile.
“Document everything.”
Then he left.
At lunch, Stella checked every medication bottle.
Labels.
Lot numbers.
Pill counts.
One baclofen bottle had a different pharmacy sticker.
Same prescription.
Different fill date.
Two weeks before Stella started.
She photographed it.
“Frankie.”
He entered.
“What?”
“Who picked this up?”
He looked.
“Driver.”
“Name?”
“Marco.”
“Still employed?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Garage.”
Jonah rolled into the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Your baclofen supply is weird.”
His expression hardened.
“Define weird.”
“Different pharmacy. Different fill date. Dr. Aris says your level ran high.”
Frankie looked at Jonah.
Jonah’s face became still.
“Who knew?”
Stella answered.
“Aris. Whoever handles the medication cart. Pharmacy. Driver.”
“And you.”
“Now.”
Jonah looked at the bottle.
“Could this have caused weakness?”
“Extra sedation, more weakness, confusion. Possibly worse respiratory function.”
His jaw tightened.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
There it was again.
A man trapped inside a body he did not trust discovering his medication might also have been manipulated.
Stella softened without pity.
“We’ll test the tablets.”
He looked at her.
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
Frankie sent them to a private lab.
By evening, preliminary screening came back.
The pills contained baclofen.
And something else.
Low-dose clonazepam.
Not prescribed.
Jonah stared at the report.
“A sedative.”
“Yes.”
“Enough to kill me?”
“Probably not at that level.”
“Enough to make me slower.”
“Yes.”
“Weaker.”
“Yes.”
“Easier to attack.”
Stella did not answer.
She did not need to.
Jonah looked at Frankie.
“Bring Marco.”
The driver was gone.
His phone disconnected.
Apartment empty.
Jonah’s hand closed around the chair control.
“Find him.”
Frankie nodded.
Stella watched the old world return to Jonah’s face.
The one where finding a man probably meant more than asking questions.
“Jonah.”
He looked at her.
“What happens when Frankie finds him?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“His answers.”
She frowned.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is mine.”
“No.”
His eyes went cold.
“This is not your concern.”
Stella held his gaze.
“I dispense your medication. If someone poisoned it, it became my concern.”
“Stay in your lane.”
“Fine.”
She lifted the report.
“My lane currently has a felony in it.”
Frankie looked down to hide a smile.
Jonah stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly:
“No one touches Marco.”
Frankie looked up.
“Boss?”
“Find him.”
Jonah’s eyes remained on Stella.
“Bring him back alive and intact.”
Stella exhaled.
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me.”
“Why?”
“I am doing it because I need information.”
“Whatever helps you sleep.”
His almost-smile appeared again.
Then disappeared.
That night, Stella organized the locked medication cart herself.
At the bottom drawer, taped beneath the metal tray, she found a folded photograph.
Jonah standing.
Before the shooting.
Beside another man.
Same dark eyes.
Similar jaw.
Older by perhaps five years.
On the back:
MATTEO + JONAH — HARBOR OPENING.
Stella carried it to Frankie.
“Who’s Matteo?”
Frankie’s expression changed.
“Jonah’s brother.”
“I didn’t know he had one.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
“Why?”
Frankie looked toward Jonah’s dark study.
“Because Matteo died the night Jonah was shot.”
Stella stared.
“Same attack?”
“Yes.”
“Sniper?”
Frankie was silent too long.
“No.”
May you like
Then he said:
“Matteo was standing behind the sniper.”
