Wasn't it, though? Wasn't he the one who was supposed to prevent this sort of thing? Again, he set it aside. This was not about him. "I'm Carson," he said quietly in response. "Try not to think about what could have been. I find it can drive you mad with doubt." He put a hand at her elbow and gently urged her to stand, eyeing the blood that lingered with the dirt on her fingers. "Let's go get you cleaned up, eh? I can tell you firsthand that it doesn't get any more comfortable to let that linger." His tone was quiet, careful, soft. He remained insistent until she stood up, at which point he guided her toward the shore. It may not have been the cleanest water, or the best option, but it would wash away the blood and dirt.<br/><br/>"So, Malia," he said, using her name again, using it to remember it. "How long have you lived in Little Lake? Do you know the history of the town at all? Anything that could help me be better at my job?" Keep her engaged. Keep her mind off of the tragedy. He knew from long experience that dwelling on it would only make the guilt worse, the anger fester. He knew he had to at least try and distract her.