Title: The Masterpiecers
Author: Olivia Wildenstein
Genre: YA/NA Mystery
Hosted by: Lady Amber’s PR
Olivia Wildenstein grew up in New York City, the daughter of a French father with a great sense of humor, and a Swedish mother whom she speaks to at least three times a day. She chose Brown University to complete her undergraduate studies and earned a bachelor’s in comparative literature. After designing jewelry for a few years, Wildenstein traded in her tools for a laptop computer and a very comfortable chair. This line of work made more sense, considering her college degree.
When she’s not writing, she’s psychoanalyzing everyone she meets (Yes. Everyone), eavesdropping on conversations to gather material for her next book, baking up a storm (that she actually eats), going to the gym (because she eats), and attempting not to be late at her children’s school (like she is 4 out of 5 mornings, on good weeks).
Wildenstein lives with her husband and three children in Geneva, Switzerland, where she’s an active member of the writing community.
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“Our mother used to say that Ivy sucked all the good from the womb and I was left with the scraps. I hate to think she was right about anything, but my twin sister is exceptional.
“You’re going to do so well,” I tell Ivy, squeezing her hand.
“No touching,” barks the guard watching over us.
It’s just the two of us in the visitation room.
Ivy yanks her hand out of mine. “I don’t know about so well, but I’m going to do my best.” She links her fingers together in a business-like manner. “Has Josh come to see you yet?”
“He told me he spoke to your warden about letting you watch the show. You have his permission to look at it whenever you want.”
I give her a weak smile. “That’ll be the highlight of my day.”
She runs her nail underneath the peeling, synthetic wood surface of the table.
“I’m happy you came to see me,” I say.
Her gaze sticks to the tabletop. It’s as though she doesn’t dare look up at me. I think she’s afraid to cry. “Was it really an accident, Aster?” Her voice is so faint that I have to strain to make out her words.
“You promise me—”
“Yes,” I say. “Stop worrying about this. By the time you come home, it will be ancient history.”
She bites her lip.
“Now go make history,” I tell her.”