Free New Year Island by Paul Draker Page A

amilla had learned Soccer Mom’s name: Veronica Ross. She was an attractive woman in her late thirties or early forties. But she looked a little hard, too.
    “This is ridiculous,” she said. “They’re going to play a video for us? That’s it? I went to a lot of trouble to be here. I could be getting work done instead.”
    On a Friday night? Camilla wondered, but she asked, “What kind of work do you do, Veronica?”
    The large video monitor on the wall behind the head of the table looked different now. It had been there all along—part of the high-tech decor, displaying colorful abstract-expressionist art. But now the art had faded away. The blank screen seemed to be watching them like a big, dark eye.
    Cups rattled on saucers nearby. Dessert forks scraped against fine china. All the contestants had gathered around the long table, except for Jordan and the motorcycle rider, whose name was Juan Álvarez. A dive captain. Camilla was eager for them to join—she wanted to meet the two key members of her dream team. But they were still on the other side of the salon, deep in conversation. In the meantime, Camilla and Mason were getting to know the other contestants. Stewards dressed in white had rolled a dessert cart in and served coffee at the long table covered in elegant white linen. A growing sense of impatience and anticipation hung in the air. The ship had left port almost two hours ago, and so far, there was no sign of their hosts.
    Veronica’s jaw tightened in annoyance. “I’m the director for Safe Harbor, a women’s shelter, here in the city.”
    Camilla was surprised—seeing the designer-label clothes, salon highlights, and careful makeup, she had trouble picturing Veronica in that role. She looked down at Veronica’s hands. Her French manicure was perfect.
    “That’s commendable,” Brent said, and sipped his coffee. “Camilla, you also mentioned that your foundation does some work with orphaned children?”
    She nodded. “Our invisible hosts promised some publicity, and a matching grant if I win.”
    Veronica was staring at her. Those eyes were her most striking feature: a pale metallic blue that was almost silver, like the glowing eyes one sometimes saw on Siberian huskies, or wolves. Camilla had never seen eyes that intense before, and now they were fixed on her, unblinking. It made her uncomfortable. Jeez, lady, relax—this isn’t a competition between our charities. But then again, she realized, that was exactly what this was.
    “So what does your husband do?” Mason asked Veronica.
    “I’m not married. But let me tell you something.” She set her coffee cup down with a clatter for emphasis. “This is not how it’s supposed to work. Not at all.”
    “It’s a new studio,” Camilla said. “Maybe they’re trying something new.”
    “Right,” Veronica said, shutting her down. “I asked around, and there are these websites where you apply for the shows you want to try out for, with descriptions of what they’re about. You’re supposed to send in a short video of yourself, where you talk about why you’d be perfect for this show or that show, and then they pick the contestants from those. Natalie was saying she watched…” She looked around, frowning, and snapped her fingers twice. “Where is Natalie?”
    Natalie must be the art student. Camilla sort of remembered the girl coming to the table, but now she didn’t see her. She scanned the salon, but Natalie seemed to have disappeared somehow.
    Veronica looked puzzled, too. She pushed her chair back, and her pale, silvery eyes swept the room for several seconds. Then she relaxed. “There she is.”
    Natalie stood over by the appetizer counter. Camilla wasn’t sure how she had missed her the first time she looked. The girl did have a sort of stillness to her—a tendency to disappear into the background, avoiding notice. She now made her way back, holding a Diet Coke. Camilla realized that she had never heard her speak. What an