Page 2 of Born Daddy

Every time he’d told himself he would go, that he should go, that he had to go—something had always stopped him. Maybe he didn’t have the right, as if he’d be desecrating the services by attending. Guilt by association was perhaps a title he deserved. Even though he hadn’t worked the case—or for that matter, had ever been a homicide detective—he was still a cop. An undercover cop for fifteen years who was now a teacher at the academy, but a cop, nonetheless.

But here he was, and he couldn’t turn his back on Mrs. LeBlanc when she needed him the most. Rogan steeled himself, sucked in a deep breath then exited his truck. He adjusted his belt, checked that his plain white dress shirt was still tucked in—ignored the damn tie—then made his way inside.

Once he’d stepped into the small reception area, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The late spring skies were mostly clear with the unusually strong humidity high enough he could feel the sweat building in his pits and the back of his neck. He glanced around the lobby area. Rogan noted that two service rooms were available, and while both easels that would normally announce which room belonged to which family were blank, the room with the open door made it clear where he should go.

He entered the small chapel that contained rows of padded, wood folding chairs that were ten rows deep with a center aisle. His gaze went directly to the front of the room, to the large, rectangular table covered with a mauve cloth. His stomach lurched. An urn sat atop the surface that contained the ashes of someone who, up until a month ago, was a man he’d known for decades, someone he’d once considered his best friend, but who was now forever sealed in a non-descript, metal container.

Rogan ran a hand across the top of his head and sighed. He then turned his attention to Mrs. LeBlanc, who was seated up front in the first chair to the left of the aisle. As he tentatively stepped forward, his gaze traveled to a young man—small in stature—who was sitting near the wall on the right in the very last row.

The man was dressed all in black, but the lighting in the seating area was too dim for Rogan to make out much more than that. His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. Rogan had the impression he was trying to make himself invisible.

His eyes wandered to the other side of the aisle as he moved forward, and he frowned. The only other person attending was a man sitting in the middle of the rows, note pad and mini recorder in hand. If he didn’t think that grabbing the guy, who was clearly a reporter, then tossing him out on his ass would upset Mrs. LeBlanc, he would do just that.

Rogan reached the front then leaned down, keeping his voice to a whisper so as not to startle Cam’s Mom.

“Hello, Mrs. LeBlanc. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The words were a cut and paste funeral greeting and he mentally chastised himself the moment he’d uttered them. The fuck was he thinking? There were so many losses because of Cam. He lifted a hand to rest on her shoulder, then drew it back. He wasn’t sure how she’d respond to touch. Hell, he wasn’t sure about much these days.

She still hadn’t responded, hadn’t even flinched. Her gaze remained fixed on her son’s ashes, staring silently through the black veil that covered her face and head. She took in a quick breath, then angled her head enough to speak, but kept her eyes averted.

“Thank you for being here, Rogan.” Her voice hitched. “I’ve been abandoned by everyone else but my sister, who was unable to attend. But I suppose that’s to be expected.”

Rogan’s mind wandered to the young man in the back, and he wondered if perhaps she hadn’t noticed him. However, Rogan wasn’t sure who the guy was, so decided not to call her attention to him. The guy could turn out to be a curiosity seeker or a serial killer groupie. That’s the last thing she needed to face. The reporter was bad enough.

His discomfort rose to critical levels, but he had to be the strong one here. The sense he had was that she’d break apart at any moment, shatter like a piece of glass that could never be repaired.

“I know the front row is normally reserved for the family, but…”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. What the fuck was he talking about? Did he think that a parade of aunts and cousins, sisters and brothers, were suddenly going to march down the aisle to fill the remaining seats?

She tilted her head back, finally making eye contact. “It would mean so much if you would join me.”

Rogan swallowed past a lump in his throat. She didn’t need his self-serving emotional bullshit. “Of course.”

Once he took a seat, he folded his hands in his lap then mimicked her posture, staring ahead at the damn ashes and stuffing his feelings down with a vengeance. Whatever potential meltdown he might consider having, he could save it for later.

After another minute or two, the officiant for the service made an appearance, strolling to the simple podium in a somber manner. Rogan wasn’t about to check the time on his cell, but the man was at least five minutes late. He idly wondered who he was. The funeral director? Someone Mrs. LeBlanc had requested? The man certainly wasn’t a priest.

“Good morning.” The speaker cleared his throat, holding a fist in front of his mouth as he did. When he lowered his hand, Rogan noted how badly it was shaking as he opened the folder he’d placed on the podium. “We come here today to bid farewell to Cameron LeBlanc, a man who....” He cleared his throat again. “Who was a beloved and devoted son. Always popular with his friends in high school, he uh…”

The speaker swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, frowning as he seemed to search for where he’d left off in his speech. He looked up again. “Cameron excelled in his studies and was also a member of the Chess Club and Future Entrepreneurs Club. Eventually, he was awarded a scholarship to Harvard Business School, and upon graduation, became a stockbroker. After several, hard-working years, he went on to start his own successful company. Cameron’s mother, Judith LeBlanc, shared with me that he always made sure to provide for her and was there when she needed him. Early on, Cameron had assumed the role of the man of the house and made sure she was never without.”

Rogan drew his eyebrows together as a sob escaped Mrs. LeBlanc’s mouth. As before, he wondered if he should offer her the comfort of touch. He folded his hands instead.

“May God rest his soul.”

The officiant closed the folder that had held his speech, then hit the play button of a small CD player set off to the side. An obnoxious strain of organ music warbled from a small, tinny speaker on a folding table next to the wall to Rogan’s left. He shook his head in disbelief as the man approached.

Rogan rose from his chair, using his height and bulk as an intimidation tactic. He grasped his wrist in front of him and waited to see what the man would say to Mrs. LeBlanc. A sense of protection washed over him along with a dose of shame. Why hadn’t he thought to be the interface for her when it came to dealing with the details of such a controversial death? Even though he’d never organized or planned a funeral before, he could’ve at least offered.

But he’d been hiding, avoiding the harsh reality of what his friend had become. He was no better than Lenny or Mitch.

The funeral director, or whatever title this man held, regarded Rogan with a nervous, sideways glance before turning his attention to the still-seated Mrs. LeBlanc.

The officiant leaned down, his hands clasped behind his back as if accidentally touching her might infect him. Or perhaps he was merely being polite. Didn’t matter either way. The guy irritated the fuck out of Rogan.

“Again, I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. LeBlanc. I hope the service was to your satisfaction?”

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