Read New Year Island for Free Online Page B

failed—especially with the edgier stuff. The “leading industry players” behind Vita Brevis would stay unidentified—until the show was a success.
    Camilla knocked on the glass divider. “Gough, then Golden Gate onto Sixth, and down Folsom,” she said to head off any scenic-route meter padding. The driver tilted his head to listen, then nodded.
    Camilla considered the invitation’s vague wording again. A worm of discomfort wriggled through her thoughts. What were her “other qualifications”?
    The cab cut across Market Street, headed down Sixth, then turned onto Folsom. Camilla monitored the cab’s route absently, still deep in thought. She looked up as they passed the white concrete facade of Moscone Convention Center.
    Survivor.
    Her heart gave an ugly jolt. What? The word had leaped out at her from somewhere, snagging in her subconscious.
    Pulse slowing again, she scanned the signs announcing convention events. The headline “2012 American Psychological Association Meeting” stood out in large bold letters. She spotted the word, lurking underneath, where it loomed from the title of an event listed for today’s date: “The Survivor Personality, 3:30 p.m. Lecture open to the public.”
    No thanks, I’m good. Camilla felt the skin on her arms tighten. We’ve got that subject pretty well covered.
    She turned her head. She wouldn’t let it spoil her mood. And then they were approaching Embarcadero, the bay sparkling before them and the Bay Bridge stretching away overhead to the right.
    At the stoplight on Embarcadero, her eye was suddenly drawn to a family on the wide promenade sidewalk. The mom was holding a to-go latte in one hand and her phone with the other, talking into it, distracted. Her latte hand rested on the handle of an infant stroller. But it was the other child, maybe 3 years old, who had caught Camilla’s attention. The boy was pulling at his mom’s sleeve and pointing across the street, bouncing with excitement. Camilla’s pulse accelerated.
    She was already reaching for the door handle when the boy dashed into traffic.
    Horns blared. Brakes squealed. She threw open the door and levered herself out of the cab.
    The boy stood frozen in the middle of the street, scared now.
    A big gray truck was headed for the intersection, going too fast.
    The mother screamed.
    Camilla ran.
    The boy stood directly in the truck’s path.
    She wouldn’t reach him in time.
    Something black buzzed past Camilla with an angry metallic snarl. It flashed across the path of the oncoming truck, right where the boy stood. A half-second later, the warm air from the truck’s passing blew Camilla’s hair back. She stumbled to a halt. With a scream of brakes, the truck slid to a stop a hundred feet farther up the lane of traffic. Her heart racing, she stared at the spot where the boy had been. He was gone. Then her eyes tracked farther, to where the black shape had stopped on the sidewalk.
    It was a motorcycle. One of those high-tech racing-style ones, wrapped in glossy black fiberglass. Its motor burbled, now idling. The rider turned sideways, still astride the motorcycle, and handed the terrified boy to a startled passerby. He—it had to be a he—wore a one-piece black leather racing outfit. The full-face helmet swiveled toward her. She couldn’t make out the rider’s expression through the tinted face mask.
    Camilla realized that her jaw was hanging open. She closed it with a snap.
    The rider raised a hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger: everything’s okay. The gesture was for her. Then he faced forward again. The passerby he had handed the boy to asked something. The rider raised his shoulders in a shrug. He leaned forward on the bike. It snarled to life and bumped down off the sidewalk, disappearing into traffic just as the hysterical mother ran up.
    It all had happened so fast—the stoplight hadn’t changed yet. Camilla returned to her cab, her heart rate slowing to normal. She put her hand