There were TSP cars everywhere. Flashing lights almost blinded him. Reggie parked his car and climbed out. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing now.
He couldn’t just walk up to the TSP and say he was looking for his father. Well, why couldn’t he? His mother had probably been wrong. His father wouldn’t have shot anyone. He didn’t even think his father owned a gun. His father helped people.
Not hurt them.
Reggie started across the parking lot.
A detective held out a hand and stopped him. “Sir, you can’t go in there.”
“I’m…I was told my father is over there. I need to find him.” Reggie tried to look past the man, but the detective was just as big as Reggie. “Wallace Henedy. He’s a doctor at the hospital right there.”
The detective’s attention sharpened on him. Reggie fought the urge to question him even more. “You’ll have to speak with the detectives in charge.”
“Who would that be?” Reggie asked, holding onto his temper. His impatience. He wasn’t an idiot. Something had happened here. And his father was apparently right in the middle of it. The detective shouted to someone nearby.
A tall man with dark hair, five-to-ten years older than Reggie, walked over. “Callum?”
“Says he’s Henedy’s son.”
Reggie held out his hand to the other man. “Wallace Henedy the third. I go by Reggie. I’m trying to find my father.”
“Dan McKellen. Please come this way. We need to ask you a few questions.”
Reggie wasn’t going anywhere just yet. “Can you just tell me what happened? My mother just called me and said to get here. That my father had shot—”
McKellen held up a hand. “Mr. Henedy, please come with me. We need to have a talk.”
Reggie followed, determined he was going to get the answers.
Or find his father. Whatever happened first.