Sure, I know what actually happened: I threw a rock from the top of the bank. It flew through the bush I was hiding behind. It landed in just the right spot. End of story. When would I get the satisfaction of looking into the eyes of the person I hated in the moment before I ended his life? Maybe never. I’d have to be content to lie here in the middle of a field of fragrant berries with my nose buried in my forearms, fantasizing about the perfect crime before the horseflies got too bad.

And my forearms smelled good. A comforting blend of tanned skin, earth, and musk. I never pick all the berries I can find. My dad taught me to leave some for the birds. It’s tempting not to heed his advice when you’re as methodical as I am. But I like birds.

Deep in my wild strawberry patch, I watched the ants at work. I forced myself to calm down. I couldn’t go home all shaky and hopped-up on adrenalin in the middle of a nice summer afternoon. People would suspect something.

I waited for the sun to go down behind the silo in the distance, signalling that afternoon was over and it was time for dinner. I went home. It was almost 7:00 p.m.

I brought a baseball cap full of strawberries. My mom was mad because they had stained the outside of the cap, so I told her I’d soak it myself with a little bleach. And that was that: my first murder. I got in trouble for the stain on my cap, but it was nothing a good soak couldn’t take care of.

The detectives questioned everyone: neighbours, friends, parents. Were the brothers fighting? Had a sexual predator tried his luck and then run away after his victim got too shaken up? Had anyone seen anything? No, maybe, no.

After that we weren’t allowed to play by the river anymore. In fact, we kids were barely allowed to go outside to play without our parents. The predator was still at large, if you could believe the rumours flying around. No one seemed to grasp the absurdity of the idea that someone might want a piece of Fiset’s ass. Or maybe that was what made the whole affair so sordid: only the most perverted of deviants would go after that particular ass.

My parents, simple, sweet, hard-working people that they are, were horrified that such an act could have occurred in what was basically their own backyard, where their own daughter was in the habit of hanging out. Let’s just say the fresh-picked strawberry pie didn’t go down easily.