I frowned. He guessed my thoughts and said, “We have different fathers.” My mama raised me to handle awkward situations with grace and aplomb. Any awkward situation—even telling a man I was responsible for his brother’s death. I could hear her soft, gentle drawl deep within my subconscious. “Blair,” she’d say, sounding like Blayuh, “we do what we must and stand by it with beautiful manners.” Granted, my three sisters learned Mama’s lessons with much more of an avid interest and proclivity for living them, but even black sheep get the message if it’s repeated often enough. Stepping around the worktable, I briefly explained what happened. I didn’t apologize for killing his brother. That would be a lie, because I wasn’t the least bit sorry. Instead, I said, “Your brother was clearly a disturbed man, Mr. Fox, and I’m sorry for you and your family’s loss.”
