These Shallow Graves by Jennifer Donnelly Page A

offices—as she was to wear red garters.
    â€œThat is not funny, Josephine. I’m far too angry for jokes at the moment. In fact, I’m livid!”
    Jo flinched. “Please don’t shout, Uncle Phillip. I only went to Park Row because I didn’t want to go home. I can’t bear it there anymore.”
    Phillip was unmoved. “That’s hardly an excuse!” he said.
    â€œBut you don’t know what it’s like!” Jo argued. “Papa’s gone and Mama barely comes out of her room and the blinds are drawn all day and I feel like I’ve been shut up in a tomb!” A frightening thought suddenly gripped her. “You won’t tell Mama I went to the paper, will you? She’ll never let me out of the house again.”
    â€œThat is just like you to worry more about having your wings clipped than about the wrongness of your actions,” Philip said, still fuming. “You’ve always been a headstrong girl, and you’ve never heeded a scolding. Not about climbing too high in trees—”
    â€œCaro’s cat was stuck!”
    â€œOr swimming out too far from shore—”
    â€œI had to rescue Aunt Maddie’s hat!”
    â€œOr knocking the Beekman boy off his bicycle!”
    â€œHe deserved it! He was bullying Robert!”
    Phillip closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What am I going to do with you?” he said. After a moment, he opened his eyes again. “I won’t tell your mother. Not this time. Partly because I feel she is somewhat to blame for this, keeping you as confined as she does. But on one condition—you must promise me you will never, ever do it again.”
    â€œI promise,” Jo said. “And I’m sorry.” She truly was. She felt terrible for upsetting him. His burdens were heavy enough without her adding to them. “I know I shouldn’t have gone, but I did, and then I overheard the reporters talking, and … well, I have to know if they’re right. I have to, Uncle Phillip. I think about Papa all the time. His death makes no sense to me. He knew better than to clean a loaded gun. I know better than to clean a loaded gun.”
    Phillip looked away. “We all make mistakes. Perhaps he was preoccupied. Perhaps he only thought he had unloaded the chamber,” he said.
    He was lying. Jo could hear it in his voice; she could see it in his face. “Tell me the truth, Uncle Phillip. That’s why I came to you. Because I want to know the truth.”
    â€œThe truth can be a hard thing, Jo. It’s often best left hidden,” Phillip said quietly.
    â€œI can cope with hard things. I’m not a child anymore. I’m grown. I’m seventeen years old.”
    â€œYes, I suppose you are,” Phillip allowed, looking at Jo again. “But when I look at you, I still see the child you once were, and I want to protect that child. From grief. From pain. From all the ugliness of the world.”
    â€œPlease, Uncle,” Jo begged.
    Phillip’s eyes filled with sadness. He suddenly looked old and weary. “My dearest girl,” he said. “How I hoped I would never have to have this conversation. Yes. Charles killed himself. I’m sorry, Jo. I’m so very, very sorry.”

Although Jo had steeled herself, her uncle’s words still hit her hard.
    Oh dear God, it’s true, she thought. Eddie Gallagher was right.
    â€œI blame myself entirely,” Phillip said, his voice ragged with grief. “I saw Charles on the day of his death. We, the partners, had a meeting in his study about a ship we wanted to buy. There was something wrong; Charles wasn’t himself. He and I talked after the others left and he admitted he was troubled. He was talking wildly.”
    â€œWhat did he say?” asked Jo.
    â€œThat he felt hopeless. That he’d be better off dead.”
    â€œ Papa said such things?” Jo said, bewildered.