Free The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) by Mery Jones Page A

turned ashen. His free hand rose to his chin, rubbing nervously. “Shit. Holy effing shit.”
    “What?” I unfolded the paper. The letterhead announced the Board of Directors. Bertram had stopped walking. He stood still, massaging his chin, blinking rapidly.
    “They can’t do this—I just opened the new wing. They promised me five years—they gave their word—” He ranted, cursing, turning in circles, running a hand through the few hairs remaining on his head. “They approved my five-year plan—this can’t be happening. It’s got to be a mistake.”
    I skimmed the letter, took in key phrases. Board meeting. Trustees. Budget deficits. Funding crisis. Uh-oh. This was serious. I slowed down, reading more carefully: Government funding had dried up; private contributions and special grants were down…Managed care covered limited costs …I skipped ahead to the bottom of the letter, to the part that said, “Therefore, to maintain the superior quality of care and service to patients of the Institute …” blah blah blah…Bottom line: Over the next few days, reallocations would be announced. Reorganization would be under way. Unessential programs would be eliminated. Resources streamlined. In other words: Programs were going to be cut and people were going to get fired. Damn.
    Of course the memo didn’t give details. It simply announced that communications had been issued about individual positions. And it confirmed that the rumors that had been flying through Institute corridors for months were true. The Institute was in deep financial trouble. Staff was to be reduced. But which people, what positions? What did they mean by “unessential programs”? Was art therapy “unessential”? They’d probably think so. But hell if it was. What about all the patients I’d worked with, the progress they’d made? What would happen to them if the Institute dropped the program? And not only that—what about me? I’d worked hard here, built the program up myself, accomplished amazing results. And I had a child—no—two children—to support. We needed my income. I needed my job. This was unbelievable. Was I going to be fired? What was I going to do? Suddenly I was dizzy. Light-headed. Unable to walk. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I swayed, holding my middle, closing my eyes, wondering why I felt dizzy.
    “Zoe? Are you okay?” Dr. Haggerty had stopped arguing with his letter. He was watching me, a little alarmed.
    I nodded, but couldn’t answer. I stroked my belly, trying to breathe until the tightness passed.
    “This happen often?” He eyed my swelling middle and held on to my wrist, taking my pulse.
    “No, it’s nothing.” It had happened only a few times before, though not as decisively. “I’m just tired.” I assured myself more than him.
    He watched me, eyed my middle, waiting for me to say more.
    “So,” I changed the subject, walking on, “what about this?” I rattled the letter.
    His eyes widened. “Hell. I don’t know. Are we supposed to just give up and walk off into the sunset? Fade away?”
    I shrugged. “I guess.”
    “Well, that’s not going to happen. If they try to cut my program, believe me, they’ll hear from my lawyers. It’ll cost them.” He sighed, hopeless, aware that his words were bluster.
    “How bad do you think it’ll be?”
    “Bad,” he answered. “If the Institute goes the way of other mental health facilities, it might shut down altogether. And even if it doesn’t, it’s going to provide bare-bones care to far fewer patients.”
    “So I guess I’m a goner, then.”
    “In reality? I’d guess we both are, unless we can raise our own funding.”
    “How?”
    “You know—private sources. Grants. Endowments and such.”
    Endowments? For my arts and crafts program? Not likely. We walked on silently toward the elevator, neither having much to say. My head felt light, and I was still dizzy. Near the elevator I missed a step and wobbled against Bertram’s