Buried Truth (An Emily O'Brien novel #2)

By M.R. Miller

Life could be better for smalltown reporter Emily O'Brien. Her love life is lousy, her bills are piling up and she barely survived the holidays with her dignity intact.
When her alma mater contacts her to temporarily take a teaching gig, she decides it's a chance to boost her finances if nothing else. She doesn't expect to get involved with an old flame as she tries to find research that went missing after a professor commits suicide, following a series of clues left behind.
Their journey challenges everything that Emily believes -- about her faith, about human nature, about finding love again. But as determined as Emily is to find the research, someone else is just as committed to making sure the truth stays buried.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.R. Miller
• Release date: Nov 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301642328

M.R. Miller

I was a journalist for about twelve years with a daily newspaper in the Midwest and am now the author of the Emily O’Brien series. When I’m not writing, I enjoy reading, hiking, cooking, gardening and spending time with my family.

Book preview

Prologue

He sat at the desk in his office, a spot he’d occupied thousands of times over the years, a comforting haven where he’d graded papers, read the latest journals, come up with lectures meant to inspire young minds.

But today, being here gave him no comfort. The past few months had been hell, as the area of study to which he’d devoted his life had become the source of unthinkable pain. The thrill of discovery had quickly dissolved into a nightmare and he feared the only way out of his situation was to get rid of the object that had created the upheaval.

But he couldn’t leave it undiscovered. No matter how he felt about his circumstances, he was a scientist. So he’d crafted a journey for any seekers that may come looking. He just hoped that his message was clear enough.

He stood and went to the window overlooking the campus below. It was late September and the leaves were just beginning to change. Soon they would fall to the ground. Workers would rake them into piles, and the mounds of leaves would be picked up and disposed of. No burning allowed here, as had once been the case.

It was Sunday afternoon and the campus was practically empty, with students finding other things to occupy their time rather than walking the paths near his building. His students had always been his greatest source of joy during his career. While some of his colleagues preferred the research portion of their work, he loved to be at the front of the classroom. He wondered how much longer he would be allowed to be there.

No, he thought. I’m not ready.

He thought about Patti, his wife of almost forty years, the way she always made his eggs and toast exactly the way he liked them each morning, the way she cajoled him into going to the symphony even when he’d rather watch the History Channel at home, the joy of watching her pick out gifts for their grandchildren.

You’ve been such a good wife, sweetheart, he thought. I’m so sorry. You deserve better than this.

But despite his regrets, he knew he’d set in motion a chain of events that couldn’t be undone, knew that this discovery would drive him to his end. There was no other way. After what he’d done, nothing could ever be the same.

He took a deep breath.

It was time.

Chapter 1

I had only taken about a dozen steps when my feet flew out from under me, sending me sprawling backward onto my rear. My groceries flew everywhere.

Dammit, I yelled, then winced, angry with myself.

Do you think, O’Brien, you could manage to go twenty-four hours without cussing?

I considered that.

Maybe. If stuff like this didn’t happen.

I sat on the ice for a minute to assess whether I’d done any real damage to anything other than my ego. Everything seemed okay so I gingerly got up and tried to get my feet under me.

This is the last time I try to be fashionable in the winter, I grumbled as I carefully collected the food and put it back in the bag. The leather boots I was wearing had a heel on them and little traction on the bottom.

I’d stopped at the store on the way home from work. If I’d come home first, I would have opted to wear my hiking boots. But those looked pretty lousy with dress pants. Still, I scolded myself, if you weren’t so lazy you’d wear the real boots and change into something dressy for work, then vice versa on the way home.

But I never thought about those things until it was too late.

This winter had been relentless, even by Midwestern standards. The ground had been alternately covered with ice or snow – or both – since early November. I was already sick of shoveling my walk and bundling up against the merciless winds, and we hadn’t even made it past the holidays.

The holidays. Ugh.

I collected the groceries from my icy sidewalk and managed to make it to my back door without killing myself. Once inside, I slipped off the impractical boots and changed into the practical ones.

Then unloading my Jeep was much easier. Still treacherous, but at least I had some traction.

I had enough food to feed an army, which is why I hadn’t been able to make the trip from the driveway to the house in one trip. I hated grocery shopping on a normal day so buying enough for ten people was a nightmare.

After I got all the bags in the house, I opened the basement door where Marty had been whining and yipping to remind me he was there. I let him out the back door and into the snow, watching him snap at the snowflakes in the air and rolling on the cold wet ground.

Goofy dog.

He loved the snow, something that surprised me because he was a big baby about going outside in the rain. He was terrified of thunderstorms, and I guessed he associated the rain with loud claps of thunder. But the snow was a playground to him.

I’d only had the dog about six months. I’d fought the idea at first, when he’d slithered under my backyard fence and into my life. But the dog had saved me in more ways than one when I gave him a home. Not only was he a great watchdog, but I was a lot less lonely since he had arrived.

I left him to play in the backyard while I put away the groceries. Then, I went out to the garage, working quickly since I still had a school board meeting to cover tonight as part of my job with the Winston Chronicle.

I grabbed a bag of salt and hauled it around to the front of the house, spreading it onto the sidewalk and stoop. Normally I didn’t bother with stuff like that, but with company coming in a few days and some of them elderly, I figured I better get it done.

As I worked, I glanced over at my neighbor’s house. Ida Gentry was peeking out her front window, probably watching to make sure that Marty stayed on my property. Geez, would she ever lighten up? Ever since the dog had arrived, she’d been complaining.

I caught her eye and waved, but she just dropped the drape and moved away from the window. I kicked at the snow grumpily. What an old witch. Then I felt bad. I knew the right thing for me to do would be to keep being friendly anyway. That would be the Christian thing to do, but that wasn’t what came naturally to me. I sighed.

I looked in my bag of salt. I had enough left to do her stoop, too, which was just as icy as mine. As I began spreading it along her sidewalk, a loud bang startled me and I looked up to see Mrs. Gentry flying out the door.

Just what do you think you’re doing?

Uh, salting your walk.

Did anyone ask you to do such a thing?

Well, no, but it’s really icy and …

"I do not use chemicals on my lawn. I have prize-winning flowers and salt does nothing but ruin the ground. Are you trying to ruin my plants?"

I was dumbfounded. No, ma’am, I said sheepishly. I’ll clean it up.

Biting my tongue not to offer a sharp retort, I went back up my driveway and got a broom. Wordlessly and without looking at her, I swept all the salt back to my sidewalk and stoop, though from the corner of my eye I could see that she stood on her steps with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face.

When I was done, I forced myself to swallow and say, I’m sorry. I should not have salted your walk without asking. It won’t happen again.

Damn right it won’t happen again, I added silently.

She just humphed and turned and walked back in her house. I fought an urge to stick my tongue out at her. With my luck, she’d see me from the window. Maturity – like kind behavior – was also not really in my nature.

I went back inside, a bit perturbed to see that I only had about forty-five minutes until I had to leave for my meeting. I glanced in the fridge for something to eat but then closed the door again. Too many options. Usually it was pretty barren in there. I’d spent the last couple evenings cleaning my house. My Christmas tree was up and I’d put out the few decorations I had. The house looked cheery. But I still missed Alex.

Before I could get too down, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the Caller ID. Mattie.

Hey.

Hey yourself. Did you get everything at the store?

After about an hour of shopping. I hate shopping. Why I am I doing this again?

Because it’s a fabulous idea, that’s why.

I had spent Thanksgiving with Mattie, her husband, and their two kids, along with Mattie’s folks and her sister who drove down from the suburbs. It was then I started fretting about what I’d do for Christmas. I did not want to be a fifth wheel somewhere, but I had no family, except an aunt and uncle I hadn’t spoken to since they kicked me out of the house when I was seventeen. Granted, I’d been running with a pretty bad crowd and smoking weed then, but even after I got my act together they’d wanted nothing to do with me.

I didn’t want to be alone for my first Christmas without Alex. So I came up with this crazy idea of putting out an invite at church for anyone who didn’t have someplace to go for Christmas dinner. I figured we were all in the same boat, so why not? I had expected two or three people, not ten.

It started with two widows, Loralee Stockley and Elizebeth Reh, then an older couple, George and May Lancaster. Then a younger couple, Josh and Kyra Winters, who just moved here from the Seattle area and couldn’t afford to fly home. And confirmed bachelor Mick Urbanowski said he’d like to come, too. Then Jon Parks and his daughter Lindsey wanted to come for dinner. He was going to his former in-laws’ house in the morning for gifts, but since his wife died of cancer three years ago; he said these visits were strained. He wanted to go for Lindsey’s sake but didn’t want to stay all day. And finally came my biggest surprise. Neal Nivens stopped me after church to see if he could come, too. The kid was a junior in high school. His mother worked at the video store in town. They opened at noon on Christmas and rather than spend the afternoon alone or at the store, he wanted to hang out at my place. Sadly, his father was no longer in the picture. His mother didn’t come to church. He came with another boy from school, but he seemed to fit right in with everyone. He even offered to bring drinks.

Please don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts, Mattie said.

Well… I’ve never cooked for this many people.

It’s mostly a potluck, Em. How hard can it be? I’m going to help you with the roast. You know how to make mashed potatoes. You have people bringing dessert and the other dishes. It will be fine. I’m coming over tomorrow, and I’ll make sure you’re all set.

I sighed. The kitchen was really not my domain. I could manage the basics, but only out of necessity. Alex had been the cook in our little family unit. I’d been the one to change the oil in the car and cut the grass. I’d take that any day rather than working in the kitchen.

My mother had died when I was just a baby and my father, a former baseball player who became a carpenter after an injury ended his career, decided to teach his only child everything he knew. We were inseparable, playing baseball every day the weather was nice enough, and if work needed to be done, I was always right at his elbow. I had learned to drive nails instead of sew buttons, drill holes rather than bake pies and hit balls over the fence rather than figure out how to style my hair. It had been a great childhood, until my dad died when I was fifteen.

Having never really honed any culinary skills, beyond the basic meatloaf, spaghetti or chili recipes, I left Alex to do the big meals. I just helped or did the dishes. But I figured – I was hoping anyway – that between Mattie’s help and contributions from my guests that everyone would survive the day.

We finalized plans, then I hung up and made myself a sandwich for supper, cleaning up in enough time to make it to the Winston High School board meeting. As the education reporter, I spent a lot of time sitting in school board meetings. They could be boring but they helped me let readers know about the decisions their boards made each month. And it was a good opportunity to see sources on a regular basis. You got to know people seeing them month after month and that helped do the job. Still I hardly wanted to spend all night there. Mercifully, the meeting was short, and I was back in the office to write my story after about an hour.

Driving by the Chronicle building at night, it wasn’t apparent that much was going on inside. But often the newsroom was just as busy then as it was during the day. Most of our sports reporters worked an afternoon shift, and, like me, other reporters covered meetings at night. Or sometimes, they just stopped in to do some extra work to make sure a story was done on time. Tonight was no exception. Gary Peterson was at his desk, typing up a story from his Winston City Council meeting and the three sports reporters were working on their coverage of high school basketball, while the Chicago Bulls game was on the television. The sports department was at the north end of our newsroom, which was basically one, long rectangle with cubicles. We were each independent entities when it came to producing the paper, but we ultimately all had the same boss – Bill Marshall, managing editor.

During baseball season, I took more of an interest in what the score was for any given game they might be watching, but basketball wasn’t really my thing so I got to work on my story and managed to punch it out in about forty minutes.

I was just finishing up editing when Kim Whitaker rolled his chair from the sports department to my desk.

Don’t you know how to walk? It might be good for you to try it once in awhile.

He ignored my remark. Did you hear about the Cubs trade?

Yeah.

What do you think?

It’s stupid. What do they need with another fielder? They need to get a pitcher who isn’t on the disabled list every five minutes. Can’t win games without good pitching.

I don’t know. They’ve got a couple decent pitchers. I think what they need is a big hitter.

I snorted. You guys are so in love with these juiced up power hitters. Get real. That’s not what baseball is about.

Here we go again with your theories on keeping baseball in the Stone Age.

I glared at him. Baseball in its pure form is a beautiful thing. It’s not my fault you’re too dumb to get that.

Whit just laughed at me and gave me a playful shove. I smiled and shoved him back, pushing his chair back across the floor. He just wheeled it back to my desk.

Don’t you have anything better to do tonight than harass me?

I wanted to ask you something, he said.

Go ahead.

So, uh, what do you say you come with me to the basketball game at the high school next Friday?

Inwardly I winced. This wasn’t a friendly offer to hang out as buddies. Whit had been hinting around about dating for awhile. I just hadn’t been expecting to have to deal with it tonight. But I tried to keep my reply light.

Is that what you do with all your dates, take them with you to work?

I won’t be busy that long, and the team is good this year. It’ll be fun and I don’t have to write my story right away. We can grab some pizza or something first.

I bit my lip. I liked Whit. A lot. He was funny and personable. He could make me laugh until tears ran down my face. He was a big kid in lots of ways, even though he stood six feet four. He’d put on some pounds since his days of playing high school sports, making him less menacing and more like a teddy bear. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt his feelings. But I just wasn’t interested. Particularly since Whit seemed hell-bent on getting a girlfriend. Any girlfriend.

I reached over and patted his cheek as I stood to get my story off the printer. You’re cute.

But not cute enough to go out with?

I’m not dating right now. And even if I was dating, it wouldn’t be a co-worker.

Why not?

Because I’m a heartless gold-digger and I know how much you make.

He laughed. I hoped the joke had taken the sting out a little bit. I always knew that about you, he quipped, then he turned more serious. We could still go, just hang out, you know? It wouldn’t have to be a date.

But it would be. And I don’t think it’s a good idea.

He looked frustrated for a minute, then shrugged, rolling his chair back to sports. Can’t say I didn’t try.

Points for that, I said, grinning at him. No hard feelings, okay? It’s not you. I’m just not ready.

Sure, he said, but he still looked a little hurt.

I felt bad but didn’t know how to make it better.

I turned my story in and headed home. I turned my cell phone back on, after having it silenced for the meeting. Craig Caldwell, Alex’s best friend, had left me a message to call him. I was still adjusting to our shaky attempt at being friends. Alex had asked him to look out for me before he died – and Craig was taking that task literally, despite my best efforts to convince him otherwise. We’d compromised by agreeing to get together periodically to chat. So far, we’d went to coffee a handful of times and out to dinner twice. Craig’s on-again, off-again girlfriend, Aimee Hardgrove, was less than thrilled with the arrangement but I wasn’t willing to do it if we were sneaking around. I didn’t want her to think I was any kind of a threat. Because I wasn’t. Craig and I had a hard time having two consecutive conversations without having a spat. So far, that record was still holding.

I sighed and dialed his number. Sorry, I had a school board meeting tonight.

That’s okay. I just wanted to check in before I leave tomorrow.

Craig was flying home to Connecticut to see his family for Christmas. He wasn’t close to his parents or sisters but he made the trek every few years to keep the peace. He was staying a week.

I’ll keep an eye on your place.

Thanks. Call me on my cell if you have any problems.

I’m sure I’ll be fine. The riskiest thing I’m doing is trying to make Christmas dinner. Nothing life threatening.

Except for your guests.

Ha. Ha. Is Aimee taking you to the airport?

Yeah. I think she was hoping I’d take her with me, but I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. At least not ready for her to see how dysfunctional my family is.

Whose isn’t?

Yeah, well, wish me luck.

Good luck.

I was sitting in my driveway when I hung up and went inside to crash for the night.

On Christmas Eve, Mattie came over to help me get things ready for Christmas dinner. Christmas Eve was a half day at the Chronicle. The holidays were always slow, with many agencies and offices closed and officials on vacation. This day was no exception and I was ready to leave at noon.

Mattie had been storing presents for the kids at my house during the past few weeks to keep any surprises from being ruined by snooping. I was going to hang out with her family tonight so we would bring the gifts then to place under the tree.

Mattie and her crew were heading to see her family in the suburbs early tomorrow morning, followed by Jeff’s family, about a half hour away, in the afternoon. She and Jeff had decided to let the kids open their presents tonight and had invited me to come, too. I already had some chili in the slow cooker as my contribution – one of the few things I made well. Like most of my recipes, it was from my dad and it had a nice kick to it.

I was burned out on Christmas music so I’d just hooked up my iPod to my stereo when I got home that afternoon. Mattie and I left it on as we worked.

It seems wrong not to be listening to something more festive, she complained.

If I hear ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’ one more time, I’m going to scream, I replied. I can only take so much holiday cheer before it makes me want to punch someone.

That’s a great attitude, she said. Just make sure you don’t share that tomorrow when everyone is here.

The Needtobreathe song Return came up on the stereo and I let out a big sigh as I listened. Do you think you can have a crush on someone’s voice? I asked.

What?

Bear Rinehart, I said, indicating the lead singer for the band. Every time I hear this song it turns me to mush.

She laughed.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m not

You sound like you’re in high school.

She taped wrapping paper around a Barbie doll for Lydia, then continued innocently. Maybe if you’re so enamored with this guy’s voice, it’s time you think about going on a real date.

I shook my head. No thanks. I’m happy with my pathetic little fantasies.

Okay, maybe not now. But someday? It’s been almost a year.

"I don’t think so. Who’d want to date me anyway? I found the guy willing to put up with all my crap. I don’t think there is more than