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To Amanda, Margaret, and Barbara
Here’s to’d ya
If I never see’d ya
I never knowed ya.
I see’d ya
I knowed ya
I loved ya,
Forever.
Contents
Also by Delia Owens
Title Page
Dedication
Map
PART 1 | The MarshPrologue
1. Ma
2. Jodie
3. Chase
4. School
5. Investigation
6. A Boat and a Boy
7. The Fishing Season
8. Negative Data
9. Jumpin’
10. Just Grass in the Wind
11. Croker Sacks Full
12. Pennies and Grits
13. Feathers
14. Red Fibers
15. The Game
16. Reading
17. Crossing the Threshold
18. White Canoe
19. Something Going On
20. July 4
21. Coop
PART 2 | The Swamp22. Same Tide
23. The Shell
24. The Fire Tower
25. A Visit from Patti Love
26. The Boat Ashore
27. Out Hog Mountain Road
28. The Shrimper
29. Seaweed
30. The Rips
31. A Book
32. Alibi
33. The Scar
34. Search the Shack
35. The Compass
36. To Trap a Fox
37. Gray Sharks
38. Sunday Justice
39. Chase by Chance
40. Cypress Cove
41. A Small Herd
42. A Cell
43. A Microscope
44. Cell Mate
45. Red Cap
46. King of the World
47. The Expert
48. A Trip
49. Disguises
50. The Journal
51. Waning Moon
52. Three Mountains Motel
53. Missing Link
54. Vice Versa
55. Grass Flowers
56. The Night Heron
57. The Firefly
Acknowledgments
About the Author
PART 1
The Marsh
Prologue
1969
Marsh is not swamp. Marsh is a space of light, where grass grows in water, and water flows into the sky. Slow-moving creeks wander, carrying the orb of the sun with them to the sea, and long-legged birds lift with unexpected grace—as though not built to fly—against the roar of a thousand snow geese.
Then within the marsh, here and there, true swamp crawls into low-lying bogs, hidden in clammy forests. Swamp water is still and dark, having swallowed the light in its muddy throat. Even night crawlers are diurnal in this lair. There are sounds, of course, but compared to the marsh, the swamp is quiet because decomposition is cellular work. Life decays and reeks and returns to the rotted duff; a poignant wallow of death begetting life.
On the morning of October 30, 1969, the body of Chase Andrews lay in the swamp, which would have absorbed it silently, routinely. Hiding it for good. A swamp knows all about death, and doesn’t necessarily define it as tragedy, certainly not a sin. But this morning two boys from the village rode their bikes out to the old fire tower and, from the third switchback, spotted his denim jacket.
1.
Ma
1952
The morning burned so August-hot, the marsh’s moist breath hung the oaks and pines with fog. The palmetto patches stood unusually quiet except for the low, slow flap of the heron’s wings lifting from the lagoon. And then, Kya, only six at the time, heard the screen door slap. Standing on the stool, she stopped scrubbing grits from