These Shallow Graves by Jennifer Donnelly Page B

That didn’t sound like her father at all.
    â€œHe did, and I became angry with him for saying them. I reminded him of his family, his many friends. We argued. How I wish to God we hadn’t. I begged him to confide in me, to tell what was troubling him, but he refused, so I took my leave. I went to the kitchen on my way out. We’d had a luncheon before the meeting, and I wanted to give Mrs. Nelson my compliments. I spoke with her and left, and that night my brother shot himself.”
    Phillip covered his face with his hands. “I saw him. Lying dead on the floor of his study. I’ll never get that image out of my head. Never. I relive that day over and over again, knowing I might have prevented Charles’s death if I hadn’t argued with him. If I’d convinced him to share his worries with me. How could I have failed him so badly?”
    â€œIt’s not your fault,” Jo said fervently, her heart aching for her uncle. “If there was anyone he would have confided in, it was you.”
    Phillip lowered his hands. He nodded, but Jo could see he didn’t believe her. If only she could find the reason for her father’s death, she could convince him that he wasn’t to blame.
    â€œSomething drove Papa to do what he did,” she said. “Could it have been money worries? His business? Did he have a disagreement with one of the partners?”
    â€œYour father’s finances are not a suitable topic of discussion,” Phillip said. “But to answer your questions—no, they were sound, and as far as I know, he had no disagreements with anyone.”
    Jo took her father’s agenda from her purse. “I found this in Papa’s office,” she said, thinking it best not to explain how she’d found it. Her uncle didn’t approve of snooping. “Papa made some puzzling notations in it. Do you think they might have anything to do with his death?” She showed him the page for September 15 and pointed at the notations Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m. and Eleanor Owens, b. 1874. Then she showed him September 17, with Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m. repeated.
    Phillip peered at them, then shook his head. “I’m afraid those names don’t mean anything to me,” he said.
    Jo’s heart sank. She felt certain that Eleanor Owens had some role in her father’s death and had hoped her uncle could tell her who she was.
    â€œIf you’d like to leave the agenda with me, I could ask the other partners,” Phillip offered, reaching for it.
    But Jo was loath to part with it. “I’d like to hold on to it. It reminds me of Papa,” she explained. “I’ll write the names down for you.”
    Phillip nodded. “Very well,” he said.
    Jo pressed on with her questions. “Do you know why Papa would have seen his banker the day he died?” she pressed, pointing at the words A. Jamison, 4 p.m. written under September 16. “He’d withdrawn money. It was tucked inside the agenda. I thought it best to leave it at home.”
    â€œNo, but it doesn’t strike me as unusual. He often met with them,” Phillip replied. “As for the money, I know he’d been talking about buying a new pair of carriage horses. Maybe he found some he liked.”
    â€œDid he leave a note behind?” Jo asked hopefully.
    Phillip shook his head. “Jo, I think that’s quite—”
    Enough. Jo knew what he was going to say. He wanted to end this discussion, but she didn’t let him.
    â€œI don’t know if this has anything to do with Papa’s death,” she quickly cut in, “but there was a strange man outside our house late last night. He had something on his face, some sort of markings. Did Papa know such a man? Did he ever mention him to you?”
    â€œNo, he didn’t,” Phillip said, visibly alarmed. “What was this man doing? Was he trying to break in?”
    â€œNo, he stood by the