The most pressing issue is the cold. I’m not dressed for temperatures in the teens. I’m certainly not dressed for a middle-of-the-night snowmobile ride, when wind chills are undoubtedly below zero. As we zip through the darkness, weaving between trees and over deadfall, the cold is like a blade, cutting into my flesh and sinking deeper with every mile. It penetrates my clothes—a nightgown, flannel shirt, and barn coat—and sucks the breath from my lungs. Within minutes my entire body is quaking uncontrollably. My teeth chatter. My face and hands have long since gone numb. As much as I don’t want to get close to the driver, I lean against him, using his body to block the wind.

I try to work at the tape binding my wrists, but it takes all my strength just to hold on. I use the driver’s back to scrape at the hat covering my face; eventually, I’m able to inch it up enough so that I can see. Even then, all I can see are snow and trees flying by, none of which look familiar.

We’re on the snowmobile for less than ten minutes. By the time the engine slows, the cold has rendered me utterly useless. My hands and knees and feet are numb. I’m shivering so violently, I can barely stay astride the seat.

Tilting my head back for a better view, I try to get a look at my surroundings. We’ve arrived at a farm surrounded by hundreds of sixty-foot-tall trees. A large bank barn and paddock ahead. Two-story frame house to my left. We’ve stopped a few yards from a small outbuilding. Nothing looks familiar.

The gravity of the situation drops into my gut like stone. I have no idea where I am or why these men have brought me here. I have no mode of communication, no weapon, and not nearly enough protective clothing. In cop speak, I’m in serious shit.

I can’t help but think of Rachel Esh. She froze to death not far away from here. Is this the way it went down? Did these men come for her in the middle of the night? Did she get away from them and run into the woods? Did they look for her? Or did they know she wouldn’t make it and simply let her die in the snowstorm?

In the back of my mind, I consider telling the two men that I’m a cop. That if I die, they’ll be caught—and more than likely face the death penalty. As much as I don’t want to blow my cover and waste the time and effort invested in this operation thus far, it might be the only way to save my life.