Hunter cut through the woods at the back of the property and picked up the dirt road that led to the O’Connor Family Orchard. He passed the white clapboard house where the O’Connors ran their stand on the weekends, selling cider and baskets for U-pick berries or apples, depending on the season. Inside, he could see Mrs. O’Connor standing behind the counter in a white apron, smiling and chatting with the customers. The locals came in early for the best fruit. At this time of day, it was mostly city people, from New York and Philadelphia.

He caught her eye and waved. Mrs. O’Connor had always been good to him, and even more so after his mother started having her problems, disappearing for longer and longer stretches, before she disappeared for good. Mrs. O’Connor checked in on him without prying, and she was one of the few people who could ask him how he was doing and get a real answer. A few times, he’d even come by the orchard when he knew Will was out at a meet or practice, just to hang around while she worked. This morning she met his eye, but instead of giving him her usual quick smile, she frowned and turned back to the line of customers waiting at the counter.

Hunter continued past the stand and the tangle of old farm equipment. The ranch house with mustard-colored siding where the O’Connors lived was tucked behind the barn. Hunter rapped on the side of the screen door, knowing better than to let himself in. He was greeted by a chorus of howls and nails clicking against the linoleum as the O’Connors’ two Dobermans barreled toward the door. They’d never liked him.

Neither had Mr. O’Connor, who followed the dogs at a more measured pace. Unlike Will’s mother, Will’s father had always regarded Hunter with suspicion, if not outright hostility. He came to the screen door, but he didn’t open it. He stood behind the door with his arms folded as the two dogs jumped and growled at his sides, their spittle catching in the screen. “Sit!” Mr. O’Connor barked, and the dogs obeyed at once, resting back on their haunches and giving Hunter the side-eye.

Will’s father was wiry, like his son, with short-cropped gray hair and matching stubble on his chin. His shirt, open at the neck, showed a sliver of the semper fi tattoo inked on his chest.

“Hello, sir,” Hunter said. Mr. O’Connor was the only person Hunter ever called sir. Not that he had been asked to—it just popped out of his mouth one day and stuck. Mr. O’Connor only grunted. “Is Will around?” Hunter asked.

“So,” Mr. O’Connor said, as if he hadn’t heard Hunter. “You weren’t at this party in the woods last night?”