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Once the zip ties were off, he plopped into the chair, curling into himself and rubbing his wrists. “Is Dean in trouble?”

“Mr. West,” Josie said. “Let’s have a look at that cut first. You may need to go to the hospital.”

“No,” he snapped, voice rising.

“Keep your voice down,” Brennan told him.

Josie gave Carter her best do-not-fuck-with-me glare and he wilted. “I’m sorry. I just—I need to know. Is he in trouble? Is that why you won’t let me see him? You think he did this? Killed his own wife? He didn’t. Dean would never hurt anyone.”

His ballcap lay crumpled on the floor beneath the table. Now his hair hung over his forehead. His face was screwed up in pain. There was a wildness in his eyes. Desperation. Grief. He seemed completely unaware of the blood leaking onto his shorts.

Josie found a box of tissues on the floor among the debris. She balled a clump of them in her fist and handed them to Carter. “Put pressure on that.”

Carter did as he was instructed, wincing as he placed them against the wound.

“We need to get a statement from him,” Josie said, more to keep him distracted than because she wanted to have this particular conversation while he was bleeding in front of them.

“Does he need a lawyer?”

Gretchen stepped to the side as Dougherty returned with the first aid kit. “That will be for Dean to determine.”

“Please, just let me see him. Five minutes.”

Dougherty knelt in front of him and snapped on a pair of vinyl gloves. “Sit back and hold up your shirt.”

Josie got closer so she could see the wound. It wasn’t as long as she initially thought but it was probably deep enough for stitches. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the odor of hours-old sweat. It rolled off Carter’s body, strong enough to choke her. Perspiration from his earlier workout had dried but left faint stains on the armpits and collar of his shirt.

Carter watched as Dougherty pressed sterile gauze against the wound. His only reaction was a mild flinch. “Please,” he said. “I need to talk to Dean.”

“If you tell me what you want to say to him, I can relay a message,” Josie said.

Carter wouldn’t make eye contact.

“What do you need to tell your brother that can’t wait until later?” Gretchen asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

“Mr. West.” Josie crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you need to tell your brother?”

Carter didn’t answer. Brennan produced a small trash can and placed it next to the chair. Dougherty tossed the bloodied gauze into it and applied another piece to the wound. The blood had almost stopped completely.

“What do you need to ask him?” Josie pressed.

“Just if he needs a lawyer, that’s all.”

“What makes you think he needs a lawyer?”

When he didn’t respond, Gretchen said, “You just told us that your brother would never hurt anyone and yet you think he needs a lawyer. Why?”

“He wouldn’t hurt anyone, okay? I need you to know that.”

Carter had been kept outside the perimeter of the scene at Dean’s home. Josie knew that none of her colleagues would have given out any sensitive information about what had happened inside the house. She also knew they hadn’t allowed the two brothers any contact when they transported Dean to the station. What had happened between the time Dean called his brother to tell him that Kirstie had been murdered and Carter showing up here that made Carter believe Dean needed an attorney? That compelled him to impress upon them that Dean would never hurt anyone?

Maybe it had nothing to do with the last several hours. Josie thought back to the moments before Carter received Dean’s call at the firehouse. “He tried to get you on your cell phone before he called the landline. Your volume was turned down. How many times did he call?”

After a few beats of silence, Gretchen said, “We’re going to get warrants for phone records, Mr. West. Yours. Dean’s. Kirstie’s. How many times did he try you on your cell?”

“Four,” Carter mumbled.