Locking the door behind me, I descend the steps and round the trailer to the rear. The backyard is small and fenced with chain link that’s tangled with winter-dead vines. A rusty metal shed is nestled in the farthest corner. The door is bent and ajar, as if someone forced it open and didn’t bother repairing it. I take a moment to look inside, but there’s not much there. An old rotary push mower. A leaf rake. Snow shovel. A few clay pots. I move on to the fence at the back, shove open the gate, and then I’m in the woods and heading north.

I start off at a jog. It’s not easy in muck boots and a dress, especially with four inches of snow on the ground. I can’t imagine how silly I’d look to some casual observer. Luckily, I’m in the boonies, and chances are I won’t run into anyone.

My boots are nearly silent as I weave through the trees. Somewhere in the near distance a hawk whistles. It’s a melancholy, lonely sound in the silence of the forest. A light snow has begun to fall, and though my nerves are on alert, I can’t help but admire the stark beauty all around me.

I have only a general idea of my destination. Suggs told me the girl’s body was found near the lake. The tree nearest her body was flagged with orange marking paint. He thought there might be some scraps of crime scene tape left as well. He wasn’t sure.

It doesn’t take me long to reach the lake. It’s a good-size body of water—about two acres—and completely frozen over. A deer path runs alongside the water’s edge. I cut over to the trail and continue on. The snowfall is just enough to dust my shoulders and head covering. It’s cold, but the physical activity has warmed my core. Ever cognizant of the coming darkness, I maintain a brisk pace. It’ll be fully dark in half an hour. If I don’t find the scene quickly, I’ll have to turn around and wait until tomorrow.

I reach the end of the lake and stop, looking for the marking paint or any scrap of crime scene tape left behind. I turn, take a good look at my surroundings. I pick out a few landmarks, and then I leave the path and go left. I walk fifty yards, keeping my eyes on the tree trunks. When I think I’ve gone far enough, I go right for a few yards and then walk back toward the lake.

I’m about to give up when, twenty yards from the north end of the water, I find the orange X on the trunk of a massive birch tree. Of course there’s nothing to indicate Rachel Esh had ever been here, but there are signs that this was the scene of a police presence. A six-inch-long piece of yellow crime scene tape is tied around a sapling. Another piece is stapled to a larger trunk. The underbrush has been trampled, some of it cut away.