Forty-eight to seventy-two hours. In that time her beauty faded into rot, one thing becoming nothing. I know for certain that Derek McCannon murdered my Denise, I know because of the peaches. 

Peaches when kept in the warm and dark, conditions favourable only to the devil’s Ivy, they begin to decay. It takes around two days. The pantry where I keep mine stays at a constant 70 degrees Fahrenheit - for efficient decay - I need that daily dose of rot. 

Before the dawn, in the dark, I enter the pantry. The heat inside blasts me awake, I’m reminded of her, of her torn-apart dress, of her defilement, of the evidence left behind, of that rotten peach. 

My peaches are in various states of decay, and I take only the most-mealy of the peaches, wrapped in a clear plastic lunch bag. 

I’ve lived this routine for eighty-five days: Dark – Peach – Clothes – Lock up – Walk. 

Unemployment has few benefits, but it affords me flexibility. I’ve got no reason to be across town, past the trailer parks and women’s shelters, to be on Bartlett Rd, where he is. Every morning you’ll find me there, doing what I need to do.

The routine always includes him. He is my routine. 

No evidence. Bah! There was plenty, the blues were asleep at the wheel. 

No evidence meant no arrest, no conviction, no justice. Can’t have that. 

We all know he did it. The guy actually GROWS peaches, has NO alibi, harassed Denise WEEKS before her death, has an assault record LONGER than the local census. Two plus two EQUALS four, McCannon MURDERED Denise. 

He thinks he’s invincible, those types always do, thinking they’ve gotten away with it. He’s not allowed in town until November, that doesn’t stop me from paying him a visit, no it doesn’t. 

Each morning, I leave a peach, for him to discover, like we discovered her. 

He gets the message, he knows. It’s just a reminder, something small, something silent, a little thing. 

Given enough time, enough peaches, he’ll either leave, kill himself or turn himself in. 

Today is peach eighty-six.