AWN BROKE WITH A COOL GRAY DRIZZLE THAT CONTINUED throughout the morning. The sky went from charcoal to slate to pearl, but the sun remained only a dull white smudge.

By eight we were on the back of Dewees Island, in a stand of maritime forest five yards in from the high-tide beach. An occasional gust whispered in the glistening wet leaves. Drops ticked the plastic sheeting as I exposed it with my trowel. Miller's boots squished as she circled, Nikon capturing the melancholy mural.

Gullet stood above me, face impassive, errant breezes puffing his nylon jacket. Marshall watched from a golf cart, manacled arms crossed, a deputy at his side.

Beyond the rain and the wind and the camera, there was a stillness about the scene that seemed fitting. Solemn and somber.

By noon Miller and I were able to free Cookie Godine from her makeshift grave. A mild stench rose, and millipedes skittered back toward darkness as we lifted the sad bundle and carried it to the waiting van.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Marshall raise a hand to cover his nose and mouth.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Friday morning I rose at nine, put on a dark blue skirt and crisp white blouse, and drove to St. Michael's Episcopal. Leaving my car in the lot, I walked to the Old City Market, made a purchase, then returned to the church.

Inside, the crowd was larger than I'd expected. Emma's sister, Sarah Purvis, silent and pale. Sarah's husband and children. Gullet and a number of his staff. Lee Anne Miller and Emma's employees from the coroner's office. There were also several dozen people I didn't recognize.

I watched the mourners throughout the service, but didn't sing or join in the spoken prayers. I knew I'd weep if I dared open my mouth.

At the cemetery I stood back from the grave site, observing as the casket was lowered and the attendees filed by, each tossing down a handful of dirt. When the group had dispersed, I approached.

For several long moments I stood over the grave, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"I'm here to say good-bye, old friend." A tremor shook my chest. "You know you will be missed."

With trembling hands, I dropped the bouquet of baby's breath and everlasting life onto Emma's coffin.

===OO=OOO=OO===

It is now Friday night, and I am lying alone in my too empty bed, aching with regret that Emma is gone. Tomorrow, I will take Birdie and Boyd and return to Charlotte. I will be sad to leave the Lowcountry. I will miss the smell of pine, and seaweed, and salt. The ever-changing play of sunlight and moonlight on water.

In Charlotte, I will help nurture Pete back to health. I could not do that for Emma, could not will good cells into her body or drive out the Staphylococcus that finally took her life. I will still think about my husband's unfaithfulness, and about my perplexing continued attachment to him. I will try to separate those feelings from the feeling of tenderness engendered by the child who is as much him as she is me.

In a few weeks I will pack my bags, drive to the airport, and board a flight to Canada. In Montreal, I will pass through customs, then take a taxi to my condo in centre-ville. The next day, I will report to my lab. Ryan will be eleven floors down. Who knows?

One thing I do know. Emma is right. Whatever the outcome, I am among the lucky. I have people in my life. People who love me.