Free These Shallow Graves by Jennifer Donnelly

heatedly. “This is my father I’m talking about. I’ve risked a great deal to come to you tonight. A very great deal.”
    Eddie removed his hand from her waist and offered her his arm. Jo took it. She had no choice. Cobblestones, ruts, and trolley tracks made a diabolical obstacle course.
    When they reached the sidewalk, Eddie stopped. He didn’t take his arm away. Jo didn’t remove her hand. “You’ll risk more if you pursue this,” he said, his tone softening. “A lot more. Like I told you, suicide’s an ugly thing.”
    â€œI’m prepared for all eventualities, Mr. Gallagher,” Jo said.
    â€œAre you?” Eddie asked, looking at her as if taking her measure. “All right, then, Miss Montfort, here’s the deal: A man went missing two days ago. His body was found tonight behind a Cherry Street warehouse. Turns out his wife left him for someone else. She wanted a divorce, but he wouldn’t give her one. Now the dead man’s parents are accusing the wife’s boyfriend of murdering their son. The boyfriend’s been arrested. The dead man’s at Bellevue.”
    He gave her a challenging smile. Jo swallowed. Her hand tightened on his arm.
    â€œB-Bellevue?” she stammered. “As in—”
    â€œAs in the morgue. That’s where I’m going. Still want to come?”

“If it isn’t Eddie G.! Guess you got my message. Good thing, because I’m starving. Where are you taking me?” asked the young man in the black leather apron.
    He was round-faced, bespectacled, and covered in blood. As Jo watched crimson drops fall from the hem of his apron to the floor, she felt a surge of nausea. For the first time in her life, she blessed her upbringing, with its tight corseting of the emotions. It helped her keep her feelings in check and her supper in her stomach.
    â€œIt’s almost eleven, Osk. Most places are closing down,” Eddie said. “I’ll take you out tomorrow.”
    â€œBetter be somewhere good,” Oscar said. “You owe me. Guys from the Herald and the World came by. I sent them packing.”
    â€œHow’s Moretti’s sound?”
    â€œAte there last night.”
    â€œDonlon’s?”
    â€œI’m sick of oysters.”
    â€œMook’s?”
    â€œMonsieur Mouquin’s! Now you’re talking.” Oscar held up a bloodied finger. “But only if they’re serving bouillabaisse.”
    Dear God, Jo thought. We’re in a morgue. How can they talk about food?
    â€œWho’s that?” Eddie asked, pointing at a mangled body splayed out on a white ceramic table. Jo didn’t look at it. She knew she’d run out of the place screaming if she did.
    â€œA John Doe. Carriage accident. Cops just brought him in. Who’s that?” the aproned man asked, pointing at Jo.
    â€œOh, her?” Eddie said. “That’s … that’s our new cub. Josephine …”
    â€œJones. Josie Jones,” Jo quickly interjected, grateful for Eddie’s fib. She could not let it become known that Miss Josephine Montfort of Gramercy Square frequented the morgue in her spare time. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. …”
    â€œOscar. Oscar Rubin. A girl cub? Guess every paper wants its own Nellie Bly now.” He extended a hand. It was covered with gore. Jo stared at it, horrified. “Oh, sorry,” he said.
    He wiped the gore off—most of it—then held it out again. Jo had no choice but to take it. Eddie was watching her, waiting for her to crumple. She knew he was testing her—and that she’d better not fail if she wanted his help.
    â€œThe morgue ?” she’d repeated, when he told her where he was going.
    â€œYes, the morgue. You game?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Gallagher, I am,” she’d replied, bluffing madly. “In fact, there is no one more game than I.”
    When they’d reached