The Spare Room

The Spare Room is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.Copyright © 2023 by Andrea Bartz Inc.All rights reserved.Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.BALLANTINE is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATANames: Bartz, Andrea, author.Title: The spare room: a novel / Andrea Bartz.Description: First Edition. | New York: Ballantine Books, 2023.Identifiers: LCCN 2022048089 (print) | LCCN 2022048090 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984820495 (Hardback) | ISBN 9781984820501 (Ebook)Classification: LCC PS3602.A8438 S63 2023 (print) | LCC PS3602.A8438 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022048089LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022048090Ebook ISBN 9781984820501randomhousebooks.comBook design by Elizabeth A. D. Eno, adapted for ebookCover design: Sarah HorganCover images: Nic Skerten/Trevillion Images (house),Carey Shaw/Stocksy (pool)ep_prh_6.1_143817173_c0_r0 ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightAuthor’s NotePrologueChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-oneChapter Twenty-twoChapter Twenty-threeChapter Twenty-fourChapter Twenty-fiveChapter Twenty-sixChapter Twenty-sevenChapter Twenty-eightChapter Twenty-nineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-oneChapter Thirty-twoChapter Thirty-threeChapter Thirty-fourChapter Thirty-fiveChapter Thirty-sixChapter Thirty-sevenChapter Thirty-eightChapter Thirty-nineChapter FortyChapter Forty-oneChapter Forty-twoChapter Forty-threeChapter Forty-fourChapter Forty-fiveChapter Forty-sixChapter Forty-sevenChapter Forty-eightChapter Forty-nineChapter FiftyChapter Fifty-oneChapter Fifty-twoChapter Fifty-threeChapter Fifty-fourChapter Fifty-fiveChapter Fifty-sixChapter Fifty-sevenChapter Fifty-eightChapter Fifty-nineChapter SixtyChapter Sixty-oneChapter Sixty-twoChapter Sixty-threeChapter Sixty-fourEpilogueDedicationAcknowledgmentsAlso by Andrea BartzAbout the Author_143817173_ Author’s note: The cat is always fine. The streets are silent at Tanglewood Estates. Swaying branches and the occasional squirrel are the only breaks in the slow-moving shadows, undulating shapes that stretch like caramel in the late-afternoon sun. For months now, the sole sound has been the trilling of oblivious birds and the footfalls of walkers, plodding after their dogs or just trying to break up the monotony, their eyes hungry for novelty after so many months indoors.What the walkers can’t do, of course, is peek into their neighbors’ homes. Discretion is next to godliness at Tanglewood Estates, and tall gates surround each residence, blocking out prying eyes, keeping whole worlds tucked within. In one mansion, a teenage girl takes her twenty-fourth attempt at a selfie, while upstairs, her mother snaps open a jar of CBD gummies. Next door, a father of two rubs his face before turning on the camera for his fourth Zoom meeting of the day. As night creeps over the community, let’s pan around the corner to the Gothic Revival, where two kids are working hard on the choreography of a TikTok dance, rattling the floor with the same song over and over and over.Then there’s 327 Tanglewood Drive, a stately manse with tall windows that look out on the lawn and the cemetery next door. Most of the house is still, a darkened dollhouse on a quiet night, beds spread with trendy duvets, fixtures gleaming in the kitchen and myriad baths.A figure stands at the kitchen sink, shoulders hunched. Look closely—the silhouette quivers like a leaf on the marbled ivy that clings to the gate out front. Every once in a while, a large shudder takes over their shoulders.But the most obvious motion is in the hands, moving steadily, writhing and twisting like dough on a hook.Scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing at the blood stiffening in the cracks of their palms. I’ve chosen Amtrak’s quiet car, so I stifle the urge to sob, to scream, to whimper in exhaustion or screech in fear of the strangers around me.It’s wild how quickly I got used to staying home. Now riding a largely vacant train feels complicated and draining, like navigating a foreign country. Virgo meows on the seat next to me, and I unzip the carrier to scratch her ears. Mike didn’t want me to take her—he even reached for her carrier as I headed for the door.Reach for me. Fight for me. I’m the one you should keep from leaving.My breath hitches, and a sob plucks at my throat. I look down at the sandwich I bought before boarding, but my stomach has that hollow, wrung-out feeling from crying so much the past three days. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel hungry again.While I sat in the cavernous belly of Thirtieth Street Station, the vibe was fearful, hushed, crackling with distrust. Masked travelers eyed one another warily. It seems like a lifetime ago that we moved freely and breezily breathed in the air, sucking it into our bodies like milk-drunk babies. I’d felt relieved to board the train, but then a man sat behind me and now he’s eating a salad, infusing the car with his hot breath.Did I think this through? It’s been sixteen hours since I shelled out $59 for a one-way ticket from Philadelphia to Washington, D.C. It might not sound like much, but my personal bank account isn’t bulging. Mike’s company funded our move; his new salary and signing bonus have been carrying us through my unemployment. The sandwich was another stupid $12.But of course, my mental math is just a distraction, an anxiety more comfortable than the true problem that looms.I gaze out the window, where pretty houses and church steeples poke out of the distance. Sabrina has a meeting at my arrival time, so her husband, Nathan, will pick me up from Union Station. I feel a squeeze of fear every time I remember this fact. I’m nervous enough to see Sabrina, and now I’ll have to start this bonkers open-ended visit by finding a stranger in a train station.My phone buzzes in the seat pocket. Mike. Hope crackles—has he changed his mind?“Hello?” I keep my voice low. I shouldn’t have picked the quiet car; a woman a few rows up turns to glare.“Kelly. Hey.” He swallows, and all the molecules in my body hold still. “Uh—I can’t find the laundry detergent.”My insides drop. “What?”“I’m trying to wash the sheets and—”“Under the kitchen sink. With all the other cleaning products.” Everything about the image fills me with sadness: Mike helpless in the hallway, peering at