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It takes almost two days for anyone to notice that Reese Bishop is dead.

It’s the flies that cause the discovery.

On Saturday morning, they buzz against the window of the kitchen, a dozen small notification systems of fragile wings and oily legs, their mouths masticating bits of Reese’s flesh as they batter against the panes.

The taps of their bodies against the glass catch the attention of the mailman, who pauses in his attempt to wedge the furniture catalog into the mail container beside the front door.

Brad Thomas hitches the heavy messenger bag up on his shoulder and hesitates at the sight of the insects’ movements. Reese Bishop didn’t complete a request to hold her mail, and it was odd for her box to be full. Two odds, as his wife likes to say, don’t make a right.

His gaze drops to the thick catalog, which now sticks halfway out of the box. Leaving it in place, he sidesteps over to the window, cups a hand over his right eye, and leans forward to look through the dirty glass.

The fifty-two-year-old woman is sitting at the small round table in the kitchen, her head down on the red tablecloth. Her hair is pulled back with a fluffy scrunchie, and she has a small flower tattooed just behind her ear. Her face is turned toward him, her eyes dark, her mouth hanging open.

Flies crawl across her pale white skin and into and out of her mouth. Below her eyebrows are two dark balls of movement, and the postman inhales sharply at the realization that the flies are feasting on her eyes.