“The monks here are a silent order,” advised Brother Vito. “They designed the program, but they take no part in it. You’ll barely see them, apart from when they’re preparing the meals.”
Good, it’s strange enough here without having to deal with shadowy monks as well.
I knew that Brother Vito wasn’t actually a monk himself. He and three other benevolent businesspeople had funded the monks’ program here for many years. It was apparently just tradition that the mentors were called brothers and sisters.
I followed him to an enormous hexagonal room, in which the scene before me seemed otherworldly. Fourteen women slept in the beds, their hair fanned out on the pillows. Metronomes ticked and echoed on wooden shelves high above each bed. An arched window framed the indigo darkness.
“The men are in the room next door,” he said in hushed tones, handing me two items of folded clothing. “The rooms will be locked. You’ll be quite safe. Oh, and Evie”—he pulled out a small bottle from his pocket—“here’s a couple of sleeping pills to help you through your first night.”
He waited while I changed my clothes in the ancient bathroom and returned to settle into bed. With a nod, he clicked the door shut.
Darkness swept the room.
Jetlag moved through me in heavy, syrupy waves. Curling up, I tried to make myself sleep, but I couldn’t seem to find the right spot in the bed. The ticking of the damned metronomes began to sound like a ceaseless march.
I ran my fingertips over the charms of the bracelet my husband had given me just days ago. I was supposed to have handed over everything to Brother Vito, but I’d hidden this. It was just a cheap novelty bracelet, but it was a gift only Gray and I would understand—the charms were tiny replicas of items within an online game that we played together.
I missed Gray already.
It was winter in Australia, and he and I went to sleep wrapped up together every night. He’d always fall asleep before I did, snoring gently into my temple. Or sometimes, we’d try to sneak in quick sex. On cue, our youngest daughter—two-year-old Lilly—would wake. She’d head into her big sister’s room to cause a toddler brand of havoc. Willow would either protest loudly or giggle. The girls would end up in our bed, and we’d all eventually succumb to exhausted sleep like battle-weary soldiers.
I was so far away from Gray and the girls now. But this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for me to make everything that was bad good again, and I couldn’t throw this away.
I hadn’t told anyone where I was going or what I’d be doing. Because if I did, I’d also have to reveal secrets about myself: I’d have to admit that I’m a gambling addict and that I’ve racked up a debt so huge, I’ll never be able to repay it.
There’s yet another thing I’ve been keeping from my husband: two months ago, I tried working as an escort. I didn’t get very far with it. But still, somehow, I got to that point.
How did I let all this happen? Why wasn’t I smarter?
As sleep continued to elude me, the self-accusations skewered my mind. It’d started with Lilly. From the time she was a baby, she’d been sick—the trifecta of chest infections, ear infections and high temperatures. The doctors said her frequent illnesses were unlucky but normal. I was convinced it was our house. It was an old rental and the only house Gray and I could afford. Between the rising damp and the leaks and the dark rooms, it always smelled wet. We needed money to move house, and we didn’t have money. So I’d decided I needed a job.
I’d made a list of all the things I was good at: 1. Cooking
2. Warcraft
3. Talking
4. Poker
5. Self-hate
There didn’t seem to be many job openings for Warcraft gamers or self-haters, so that left the other three things on my list. I tried gaining a job as a kitchen hand at some local restaurants, but I couldn’t get hours that would slot in when the girls were at daycare or when Gray was at home at night. And Lilly was sick too often for me to hold down a normal job anyway. So that cut out cooking.
I was down to two things on my list now.
1. Cooking
2. Warcraft
3. Talking
4. Poker
5. Self-hate
No one would pay me to talk. So I’d turned to the thing I swore I would never do again after my brother, Ben, died. Poker. It was Ben who taught me to play.
I used to be good at poker. Ben’s friends used to complain whenever I played with them because I’d win. I started entering local poker competitions, sharpening up my rusty skills.