VERGE.” Lewis pinched the phone receiver between his shoulder and ear, slipped his hand underneath the tangled cord, scribbled notes. “A letter, you says? What’d he write?” Pause. “Yes, yes.” Another pause, high-pitched mangle of words gushing through the phone line. “Sounds like your garden variety teenaged garbage, Mrs. Verge. Garden variety.” Pause. “No, ma’am. Don’t mind in the least. He’s apt to be up there playing cards with his buddies. Joking about giving you a jolt.” Final pause. Then light laugh. “No, Mrs. Verge. You don’t need to bring me a casserole. I’m just doing my job.” Lewis cleaned snow from the windshield with the sleeve of his coat, slid into the driver’s seat, and let the car idle for a minute. Windshield soon coated again, and he flicked on his wipers, revved the engine. Of all the days Terry Verge had to choose to make threats. Couldn’t he have waited until spring? According to Mrs. Verge, Terry’s girlfriend had broken up with him—for good, this time—and Terry was beyond distraught.
