The living room was small, equivalent to the size of the master bath in the Blocken home. A half-wall separated the cubby kitchen from the room, and the back wall was a single sliding glass door. But I guessed that Mains was more intrigued by the decor than the dimensions. Nearly every inch of wall space and furniture was splashed with vibrant and combating colors. Batiks, textiles, paintings, prints, and photographs crowded each other for precious space. They all represented different artistic periods and different artists and crafters, some professional, most amateur, and a few of my own.

Mains stared to the point of embarrassment. More gruffly than I intended, I again asked him to sit. He settled on the couch. I perched on an ancient rocking chair that I’d recently refinished. The new cushion was a bright orange and red paisley print and matched nothing else in the room.

Mains didn’t comment about my decorating prowess, but instead pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket. “This afternoon, I spoke with Dr. and Mrs. Blocken at the hospital.”

Even with the floor fan aimed at him, he looked unpleasantly warm in his summer jacket.

“Oh,” I replied, hoping to hide the true state of my frayed nerves.

“You failed to mention that your brother arranged to meet Olivia Blocken at Martin College this morning, just prior to her attack.”

“Her attack? I thought it was an accident.”

“She was pushed. A nurse discovered two hand-sized bruises on her upper back.”

“Pushed?”

He nodded. “And with a lot of force. It takes a lot of strength or anger to cause that kind of injury.”

I shook my head. “That’s impossible. Olivia hasn’t lived in Stripling in years. No one here would have any reason to hurt her.”

“Not even your brother?” Mains watched my reaction with hazel-green eyes. Earlier at the fountain, I hadn’t noticed his eye color as he’d worn sunglasses.