The Roommate Kiersten Modglin Copyright © 2021 by Kiersten Modglin All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental. www.kierstenmodglinauthor.com Cover Design: Tadpole Designs Editing: Three Owls Editing Proofreading: My Brother’s Editor Formatting: Tadpole Designs First Print Edition: 2021 First Electronic Edition: 2021 Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Enjoyed The Roommate? Don’t miss the next release from Kiersten Modglin! Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Kiersten Modglin This one’s to the adults who never outgrew reading past bedtime… “The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.” Stephen King Chapter One Nothing says regret quite like shaving your neck with a dollar-store razor in front of a filmy mirror in a rent-by-the-week motel. When Addy asked me to move out, I thought I’d be in the motel for just a few nights. She needed that time to cool down after our latest fight, I knew, but could it really be that bad? We were us, after all. We always came through. No matter how bad our fights had been in the past, we’d always found a way to stick together. But this time was different. I just hadn’t known it until more nights had passed without her inviting me to come home. I’d spent most of the last three weeks in denial about what was happening, but as I grazed the razor blade across my stubble-covered chin, it hit me. I might never go back home. I might never spend another night in the house we’d picked out, surrounded by the things we’d accumulated in our nineteen years together. I might never again live under the same roof with my wife and daughter. We hadn’t said the words yet, hadn’t decided how we were going to divide up the marital assets or how custody of Rory would work, but the reality sat unspoken between us. If I didn’t find a way to fix things soon, she’d let me go forever. I’d crossed the line one too many times, missed one too many dinners, forgotten one too many birthdays. I loved my job, had worked hard for my job, but it had ruined my life. I wanted to fix things, but I had no idea how. I’d tried calling her, but the calls went unanswered. When I stopped by, she wouldn’t come to the door, or, when she did, she’d say I needed to leave. The house was in both our names, I knew. I had the keys; it wasn’t as if she’d changed the locks, but I was no longer welcome there. She’d made it clear that only one of us could stay. Her or me. And it had to be her. I didn’t want her to leave the home we’d shared, and I didn't want to ask her to move into her mother’s new, tiny two-bedroom condo, though Addy had offered multiple times. I knew my mother-in-law would be all too happy to have Addy and Rory stay there for a while, but it felt wrong to me. This wasn’t Addy’s fault. My wife had done everything she could to fix us, and now it was up to me. The truth was, though, neither of us could really afford to stay in the house alone for long. I knew we’d end up having to sell it, if it came down to it, but I didn’t want that. We’d built a life there. It was the home we’d celebrated every bit of our success in over the last five years—promotions, birthday parties, anniversaries, new deals being closed. It was the home where Rory’s beloved Dalmatian had been buried in the backyard, and where the rotting tree house we’d spent our first night at the house in sat, still waiting for me to repair it. It was the home where I’d had chance after chance to appreciate how quickly time was passing, how fast my daughter was growing up, how rapidly my wife and I were growing apart, but had chosen not to. Not because I didn’t care, but because I never took it seriously enough. I never thought I was really risking losing them. I knew I needed to do better, and I would. I swore that I would if only she’d give me a chance. But I’d made that promise before, and it meant little to her at that point. She didn’t trust me. I’d spent the last five years giving her reason after reason not to rely on me. I used a towel to wipe the rest of the shaving cream from my neck, looking over the razor-burned skin carefully. I needed to shop for new supplies, including a shaving cream that wasn’t provided by the motel staff. But doing so meant that I had decided I was going to be there for a while, and I was far from admitting that, even to myself. If I held out, I was holding on to hope. How much longer could I do that? I couldn’t keep showing up to work with red, irritated skin and unstyled hair. I’d made due with what little I’d managed to grab on my way out of the house that night and what the front desk could provide for free during my stay, but I was at a motel, not a hotel, and resources were limited. I could no longer put off a trip to the grocery store. As it
