“Miss, you shouldn’t be back here. Are you all right?”

I stared at a pair of black walking shoes. After two more deep breaths, I straightened to stare into the concerned face of a middle-aged EMT. White remnants of sun block glistened on his bald head. The dizziness passed.

“Is that,” I stopped and began again. “I’m looking for my brother, Mark Hayes.”

The EMT nodded. “Don’t worry, Miss, he’s fine. He’s a little shaken up, but fine. I’ll take you to him.”

Mercifully, the EMT led me away from the cluster of emergency workers to an ambulance. Mark was perched on the end of the ambulance’s bay. Despite the heat, a heavy wool blanket enveloped his frame. A dark-haired man in khakis and a green polo shirt asked him serious-sounding questions. Mark stared at the ground, his thin shoulders shaking.

“Mark!” I rushed past the khaki-clad man. “What happened?”

I hopped up beside him on the edge of the ambulance. He sniffled. Fat tears rolled down his face and stalled at his beard. I patted his arm, wishing that my sister Carmen was there. She was better equipped to handle emotions.

The khaki-clad man uttered a frustrated sigh. “Who are you? We’re in the middle of an interview here.”

I recognized the man’s face, but couldn’t put a name to it, a fairly common occurrence for a community of Stripling’s size. “I’m his sister. India Hayes. Can you telling me what’s going on?”

“Well, Miss Hayes,” the man said. His voice had the lilt of recognition. “A woman tumbled into the fountain and was badly hurt. Your brother’s a witness.”

“Who’s the woman?” I asked, but already I knew.

The man consulted his minuscule memo pad. “Olivia Blocken.”