The phone at the check-out desk rang.

A moment later, Lasha Lint, the director of the library, bellowed, “Botswana, phone.”

Startled, I jumped. Lasha shook the receiver at me. Black, solid, relatively young, and loud, Lasha is nothing like the withering-violet type that many think of when they conjure up the image of a librarian. With a brutal penchant for nicknames, she hadn’t called me India since my first day at Martin.

“Botswana,” I said as I hopped off my chair, sending it skidding on its polished wheels into the reference counter. “That’s a new one.”

“I’ve been studying the atlas, honey.”

I chuckled and took the phone from her.

“India, do you know where Mark is?” my mother asked in the tense, low voice she used to console divorcées.

I prickled. “No, I’m not his babysitter.”

“I’m not asking you where he is, I’m asking if you know where he is. I know where he is,” she rambled.

“Then, why are you calling me if you already know where he is?”

Lasha shamelessly eavesdropped. I leaned against the checkout counter and rolled my eyes.

“Your brother called from campus. He was babbling.”

A hereditary trait, I noted.

“He said something about Olivia and a fountain. He was—he sounded strange. I’m worried about him. If you could walk over to his office and check—”

“I can’t just leave the library—” I started to say, but was interrupted by shrill sirens that shook the book stacks.

Lasha rushed to the window. “A police car and two ambulances. They’re heading to Dexler.”

“What’s going on?” my mother asked. “Are those sirens? India!”

“I’ll have to call you back.” I hung up and turned to Lasha. She had her nose pressed up against the glass.