The bells at Saint Agnes had not rung in thirty seven years. Not since the night the river took the Caldwell girl. Blackwater Hollow lay where Mississippi folded in on itself, a place of slow water and slower forgetting. The town sat on a rise above the Yazoo, but the old Caldwell house leaned toward the river as if listening for something it had lost. Its white paint had long ago turned the color of bone. People said the girl had been mad. People said she had been holy. Most
