Aspiring writer Florence is determined to get her stories published—no matter what it takes. But after her initial underhanded efforts to get a book deal result in getting fired from her low-level publishing job, she receives a fortuitously-timed offer to play assistant to a blockbuster novelist whose identity is a closely-guarded secret. Soon she’s privy to the secrets of “Maud Dixon,” who hit the bestseller charts with her debut about a sinister Southern murder, but whose sophomore novel is long overdue to the publisher. When the prickly writer invites Florence to accompany her on a research trip to Morocco, Florence can’t say yes fast enough … and that’s when the book takes a suspenseful turn I never saw coming.

Clare leads a tame life as a Manhattan stay-at-home mom, married to a nice guy from old money. She’s done with her art history PhD, except for that pesky dissertation. Then thanks to a series of bad decisions, she ends up standing over a dead body, at the scene of an eighteen million dollar robbery. She’s innocent, but she looks guilty as hell—and telling the truth will blow up her life. As Clare begins to investigate, she realizes she’s being framed. But who would do such a thing, and why? This was a blast: the murder mystery was fun, the portrayal of 1% money dishy, but I most enjoyed the headlong plunge into the world of fine art. For fans of Brendan Slocumb’s The Violin Conspiracy and Jean Hanff Korelitz’s The Latecomer.