"In this work, relationships can also become fatalities. Often they do," Scarpetta goes on, always trying to teach because it is easier for her to share her mind than to touch feelings she is masterful at keeping out of reach.

"So, Doc, you got kids?" Reba, a crime-scene technician from San Francisco, starts on another whiskey sour. She has begun to slur her words and has no tact.

Scarpetta hesitates. "I have a niece."

"Oh yeah! Now I 'member. Lucy. She's been in the news a lot. Or was, I mean…"

Stupid, drunk idiot, Nic silently protests with a flash of anger.

"Yes, Lucy is my niece," Scarpetta replies.

"FBI. Computer whiz." Reba won't stop. "Then what? Let me think. Something about flying helicopters and AFT."

ATF, you stupid drunk. Thunder cracks in the back of Nic's mind.

"I dunno. Wasn't there a big fire or something and someone got killed? So what's she doing now?" She drains her whiskey sour and looks for the waitress.

"That was a long time ago." Scarpetta doesn't answer her questions, and Nic detects a weariness, a sadness as immutable and maimed as the stumps and knees of cypress trees in the swamps and bayous of her South Louisiana home.

"Isn't that something, I forgot all about her being your niece. Now she's something, all right. Or was," Reba rudely says again, shoving her short dark hair out of her bloodshot eyes. "Got into some trouble, didn't she?"

Fucking dyke. Shut up.

Lightning rips the black curtain of night, and for an instant, Nic can see the white daylight on the other side. That's how her father always explained it. You see, Nic, he would say as they gazed out the window during angry storms, and lightning suddenly and without warning cut zigzags like a bright blade. There's tomorrow, see? You got to look quick, Nic. There's tomorrow on the other side, that bright white light. And see how quick it heals. God heals just that fast.