Genre Fiction
![Andrea Bartz - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B003RZUHM6.jpg)
The Spare Room: A Novel
Staying with a friend and her husband is sexier-and deadlier-than anyone could have imagined, in this "delightfully salacious" (Shondaland) domestic suspense novel from the New York Times bestselling author of the Reese's Book Club pick We Were Never Here.
"A fresh and sexy ride, perfect for reading poolside."-People (Best New Book)
"Sexy, atmospheric, deliciously creepy, and ingeniously plotted: the best kind of up-all-night page-turner."-Lucy Foley, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Apartment and The Guest List
Kelly's new life in Philadelphia has turned into a nightmare: She's friendless and jobless, and the lockdown has her trapped in a tiny apartment with the man she gave up everything for, who's just called off their wedding. The only bright spot is her newly rekindled friendship with her childhood friend Sabrina-now a glamorous bestselling author with a handsome, high-powered husband.
When Sabrina and Nathan offer Kelly an escape hatch, volunteering the spare room of their remote Virginia mansion, she jumps at the chance to run away from her old life. There, Kelly secretly finds herself falling for both her enchanting hosts-until one night, a wild and unexpected threesome leads the couple to open their marriage for her.
At first, Kelly loves being part of this risqué new world. But when she discovers that the last woman they invited into their marriage is missing, she starts to wonder if they could be dangerous . . . and if she might be next.
Packed with Andrea Bartz's signature tension, twists, and toxic relationships, The Spare Room marks an edgy, boundary-pushing new direction from the "master of the ‘feminist thriller'" (Los Angeles Times).
"A fresh and sexy ride, perfect for reading poolside."-People (Best New Book)
"Sexy, atmospheric, deliciously creepy, and ingeniously plotted: the best kind of up-all-night page-turner."-Lucy Foley, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Apartment and The Guest List
Kelly's new life in Philadelphia has turned into a nightmare: She's friendless and jobless, and the lockdown has her trapped in a tiny apartment with the man she gave up everything for, who's just called off their wedding. The only bright spot is her newly rekindled friendship with her childhood friend Sabrina-now a glamorous bestselling author with a handsome, high-powered husband.
When Sabrina and Nathan offer Kelly an escape hatch, volunteering the spare room of their remote Virginia mansion, she jumps at the chance to run away from her old life. There, Kelly secretly finds herself falling for both her enchanting hosts-until one night, a wild and unexpected threesome leads the couple to open their marriage for her.
At first, Kelly loves being part of this risqué new world. But when she discovers that the last woman they invited into their marriage is missing, she starts to wonder if they could be dangerous . . . and if she might be next.
Packed with Andrea Bartz's signature tension, twists, and toxic relationships, The Spare Room marks an edgy, boundary-pushing new direction from the "master of the ‘feminist thriller'" (Los Angeles Times).
Editorial Reviews
"The novel is delightfully salacious and rampant with suspense and sex, and there's a reason why Bartz is known as a hitmaker in the field."-Shondaland
"Andrea Bartz has returned to deliver. This suspense story set in a Virginia mansion features some eyebrow-raising twists, especially when protagonist Kelly finds herself charmed by her hosts-and welcomed into their bed."-Elle
"An enticing, twisty, and seductive thriller about obsession, desire, and revenge."-Nita Prose, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Maid
"Bartz's latest showstopper kept me up all night turning pages. Propulsive and sexy, The Spare Room left me gasping for air as I followed its main character into the fiery heart of a dark, complicated romance. Kelly Doyle must contend not only with two new lovers but her own expectations surrounding relationships and sexuality. This is one visit you won't want to end."-Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines
"I love a story where a woman throws convention to the wind and has to deal with messy consequences, and The Spare Room does it brilliantly. I never knew what would happen next! This book offers a delicious mix of romance and mystery that I couldn't get enough of."-Marie Rutkoski, New York Times bestselling author of Real Easy
"With its dazzling prose, fascinating dynamics between characters, and dark, twisty plot, The Spare Room has all the trademarks of an Andrea Bartz novel-while being her sexiest and most exciting book yet. I couldn't stop turning the pages; some of these scenes will be seared into my brain forever."-Megan Collins, author of The Family Plot, Behind the Red Door, and The Winter Sister
"Rife with tension...
"Andrea Bartz has returned to deliver. This suspense story set in a Virginia mansion features some eyebrow-raising twists, especially when protagonist Kelly finds herself charmed by her hosts-and welcomed into their bed."-Elle
"An enticing, twisty, and seductive thriller about obsession, desire, and revenge."-Nita Prose, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Maid
"Bartz's latest showstopper kept me up all night turning pages. Propulsive and sexy, The Spare Room left me gasping for air as I followed its main character into the fiery heart of a dark, complicated romance. Kelly Doyle must contend not only with two new lovers but her own expectations surrounding relationships and sexuality. This is one visit you won't want to end."-Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines
"I love a story where a woman throws convention to the wind and has to deal with messy consequences, and The Spare Room does it brilliantly. I never knew what would happen next! This book offers a delicious mix of romance and mystery that I couldn't get enough of."-Marie Rutkoski, New York Times bestselling author of Real Easy
"With its dazzling prose, fascinating dynamics between characters, and dark, twisty plot, The Spare Room has all the trademarks of an Andrea Bartz novel-while being her sexiest and most exciting book yet. I couldn't stop turning the pages; some of these scenes will be seared into my brain forever."-Megan Collins, author of The Family Plot, Behind the Red Door, and The Winter Sister
"Rife with tension...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
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 the washing machine; the fact that he's already cleaning our bedsheets, ridding them of my scent. I hear the clunk of a door springing open.
"Found it. Sorry to bother you." Static fizzes and moisture coats my eyes.
What happened to us? I want to scream. We're supposed to be planning a life together.
"The train okay?" he asks.
I whisk away my tears. "Yup. Text me if there's anything else, okay? I shouldn't be on the phone."
"Oh, right. Sorry."
"It's okay." I hesitate. "I'm sorry too."
"Look, let's not-" He cuts himself off, clears his throat. I know I screwed up. I thought we could move past it, but now I'm less sure than ever. "Text me when you get there. Bye, Kelly." He hangs up before I can reply, and I feel a plunge of despair.
This is not how I pictured year 34. It was supposed to be the best one yet, the year when life finally began: I had a fresh start in Philadelphia with my sweet, successful fiancé. A wedding planned, the real-life incarnation of a Pinterest board I'd been secretly updating since long before I met Mike, the invitations sent, the venue-a rustic barn near my parents' house in Illinois-locked down.
Others have it worse. I'm not sequestered in a field hospital, a ventilator controlling my lungs. My body wasn't shunted into the back of a refrigerated truck.
But this? It sucks. It really, really sucks.
I blame myself-Lord knows I've beaten myself up enough-but the caterer bears some responsibility too. Our other vendors were so understanding: We get it, no one's holding gatherings. But the farm-to-table eatery we'd hired wouldn't stop blowing up my phone, demanding we secure a new date or lose our...
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 the washing machine; the fact that he's already cleaning our bedsheets, ridding them of my scent. I hear the clunk of a door springing open.
"Found it. Sorry to bother you." Static fizzes and moisture coats my eyes.
What happened to us? I want to scream. We're supposed to be planning a life together.
"The train okay?" he asks.
I whisk away my tears. "Yup. Text me if there's anything else, okay? I shouldn't be on the phone."
"Oh, right. Sorry."
"It's okay." I hesitate. "I'm sorry too."
"Look, let's not-" He cuts himself off, clears his throat. I know I screwed up. I thought we could move past it, but now I'm less sure than ever. "Text me when you get there. Bye, Kelly." He hangs up before I can reply, and I feel a plunge of despair.
This is not how I pictured year 34. It was supposed to be the best one yet, the year when life finally began: I had a fresh start in Philadelphia with my sweet, successful fiancé. A wedding planned, the real-life incarnation of a Pinterest board I'd been secretly updating since long before I met Mike, the invitations sent, the venue-a rustic barn near my parents' house in Illinois-locked down.
Others have it worse. I'm not sequestered in a field hospital, a ventilator controlling my lungs. My body wasn't shunted into the back of a refrigerated truck.
But this? It sucks. It really, really sucks.
I blame myself-Lord knows I've beaten myself up enough-but the caterer bears some responsibility too. Our other vendors were so understanding: We get it, no one's holding gatherings. But the farm-to-table eatery we'd hired wouldn't stop blowing up my phone, demanding we secure a new date or lose our...
