It was only meant to be a game . . . None of us ever agreed on the exact beginning. Was it when we started drawing the chalk figures, or when they started to appear on their own? Was it the terrible accident? Or when they found the first body?

She sleeps, a pale girl in a white room . . . Driving home one night, stuck behind a rusty old car, Gabe sees a little girl's face appear in the rear window. She mouths one word: 'Daddy.' It's his five-year-old daughter, Izzy. He never sees her again. Three years later, Gabe spends his days and nights travelling up and down the motorway, searching for the car that took his daughter, refusing to give up hope, even though most people believe that Izzy is dead. Fran and her daughter, Alice, also put in a lot of miles on the motorway. Not searching. But running. Trying to keep one step ahead of the people who want to hurt them. Because Fran knows the truth. She knows what really happened to Gabe's daughter. She knows who is responsible. And she knows what they will do if they ever catch up with her and Alice . . .

THEN. One night, my little sister went missing. There were searches, appeals. Everyone thought the worst. And then, miraculously, she came back. She couldn't, or wouldn't, say what had happened. But she wasn't the same afterwards. She wasn't my Annie. Because sometimes my own little sister scared me to death . . . NOW. The email arrives in my inbox: I know what happened to your sister. It's happening again . . .