The first snow of the year always brought a silence, dampening down all sound.
She felt gratefully alone, walking out into the new darkness, hers the only footprints on the path.
She had been too hot inside and the cold air was welcome.
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She had heard on the radio that it was to be the worst winter in the past fifty years.
It was only a few weeks until her thirty-sixth birthday, which always fell during the school holidays, but she had so much to do before the end of term.
She was carrying a large handbag, heavy with documents to read for a meeting tomorrow.
They’re calling it the worst pile-up in London history.
Driving home, Margaret Holloway has her mind elsewhere—on a troubled student, her daughter’s acting class, the next day’s meeting—when she’s rear-ended and trapped in the wreckage. More than that, flashbacks to the crash are also dredging up lost associations from her childhood, fragments of events that were wiped from her memory.
Just as she begins to panic, a disfigured stranger pulls her from the car just seconds before it’s engulfed in flames. Though she escapes with minor injuries, Margaret feels that something’s wrong. Whatever happened, she didn’t merely forget—she chose to forget.
And somehow, Margaret knows deep down that it’s got something to do with the man who saved her life.
As Margaret uncovers a mystery with chilling implications for her family and her very identity, Margaret Holloway wrapped her scarf around her face before she walked out into the school parking lot.
It was not long after four o’clock, but a winter pall had shifted over London.
It was dusk already, wary streetlamps casting premature light onto the icy pavements.
Snowflakes had begun to swirl and Margaret blinked as one landed on her eyelashes.