A shocking murder in the New Zealand bush—and the witness who looks all too familiar—draws a woman back to the very place she swore she’d never return to in this breakneck debut thriller.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Zoë Rankin’s The Vanishing Place, which releases on September 16th 2025.
A child who ran from the forest.
A woman who must return to it
Growing up with her younger siblings in the unforgiving New Zealand bush, Effie believed their parents had cut them off from civilization because they loved Nature. She never suspected that their reasons might be more menacing. After witnessing a terrifying episode of violence, she escaped the wilderness to forge a life for herself halfway across the globe.
Now, when she learns the only witness to a murder is a little girl who looks just like her, Effie is compelled to return to the scene of her troubled childhood, where the secrets of her upbringing and the terrors of her past come rushing back to the surface. In order to find out once and for all what became of her family—and possibly help this mysterious girl who could be her younger self—Effie must face her greatest fears once more.
PROLOGUE
The child didn’t know it then. Her mind was too muddied by hunger and fear to think beyond her next steps, but she was about to become the second most interesting thing to have ever happened in Koraha.
Her arms, more bone than flesh, trembled as she pushed against the heavy door and collapsed into the cool air of the grocery store. The floor, smoother and shinier than she thought possible, caught her hands as she stumbled and fell forward, leaving two dirty smears.
Her body slumped as though there were stones in it, but then she spotted them, a glimpse of red, and she pulled a forgotten strength from her bones.
Later that day, as news of her arrival ate through the remote town, its ninety-two inhabitants would offer different accounts of what the child did next, their stories spanning the aisles of their only shop.
The lights on the fridge flickered and the girl dragged herself toward it, half-walking, half-stumbling. There was only one witness, a pimpled cashier, but the boy didn’t move. A few minutes later, when he eventually reached for the landline, he’d stutter as he tried to communicate the scene to the town’s lone police officer.
The girl, her throat and mouth parched and raw, lunged at the display of cold fruit and ripped a plastic box of strawberries from the shelf. She tore off the lid and hooked her fingers into the juicy red flesh, stuffing the berries into her mouth two at a time. The juice dripped down her sunburned face and stained her handmade dress. With the rush of sweet liquid, she felt her body coming back to her. Throat first. Then lips. Then cheeks. Like when they scoffed spoonfuls of honey straight from the hive.
Her favorite dress, an eighth-birthday present, was muddy, and the neckline was stained with something sour. She wiped her hands down the rough cotton and stared past the lanky cashier, spying the milk fridge. Rallying her legs, she shuffled over to it and wrenched the door open, her tongue pulsing. Real milk wasn’t allowed where she came from—just lumpy white powder water. But there, in front of her, sat liter after liter. She reached out and unscrewed one of the blue caps, then she lifted the bottle to her lips. The milk spilled out in a torrent, soaking her face and clothes. When she couldn’t drink any more, she slid to the floor and rested her head against the fridge door, her little body spent.
As her thumping heart settled, she stared down at her grubby arms and legs, looking for some sign that she wasn’t the girl she was a few days ago. That since she’d started walking—running—she’d changed. As her brain adjusted to the surge of sugar and calories, her mind stirred up images of what she’d fled from. As the memories took shape, she contemplated sticking her fingers down her throat and spewing them all up.
She cocooned her face in her hands, trying to shut the memo- ries out. But the horror had settled in her. She couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t blink it away. Her eyelashes brushed her palms, where dirt had congealed with blood, and she started to shake. Later that evening, as a silver-haired woman wiped her down with a cloth, the girl would wonder whose blood it was. She’d wonder if it was the blood of one person, or two, or three.
When she glanced up, a pair of hands reached for her, forearms veined and strong, and she lashed out. She swiped at the air and kicked with her legs, but the man held her still.
“You’re okay, kid,” he said, his voice soft. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
The girl stopped fighting and let him hold her—why, she didn’t know. It was bad to let him, against the rules. But she sank into him, into the smell and warmth and safety of the strange man, too tired to unjumble her thoughts. As the policeman’s heart thrummed in her ear, she knew it was bad—that she would be one of those children now. One of the children whose faces filled the front pages of those dangerous newspaper things.
“I’m Constable Lewis Weston,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Anya.”
She slapped a hand to her mouth, wanting to put the word back. It was then that the policeman flinched, the muscles in his arm tensing slightly. But it wasn’t the blood, or the mess, or the state of her clothes that had startled him. Nope. It was her face.
Something flared in her chest and she gathered herself, remem- bering the rules. She didn’t belong in this village. She didn’t belong with these people. Outside people wouldn’t understand. And if she told him the truth, if she answered any more of his questions, she would be punished. The past few days would grow teeth and horns, and the truth would consume her; it would swallow her whole and she’d burn forever.
“Where did you come from, Anya?” His voice was kind. A trick. “Are you with your family?”
The large volume of cold milk churned in her stomach and she closed her eyes. She buried herself away, safe in the quiet. It wasn’t hard. She’d gone days without speaking before.
“Is there anyone we can contact?”
She scrunched her eyes and lips tight, not letting anything slip out.
“Anya?”
She would go with the officer, first to the small police station and then to a stranger’s house. She would let them bathe her and feed her and dress her in new clothes. But she wouldn’t speak. Not when they asked about her home. Or her parents. Not when they asked her why she was in Koraha.
And that night, when she overheard them whispering, she would lock their words away. She was a ghost, they said, something unnerving and impossible. Anya, they murmured, looked just like the girl who had gone missing nearly twenty years ago.
The exact same face. The same green eyes.
