Ep. 10: October, With Knives Out
October came in sideways.
Wind ripped through Marmalade, tearing leaves from trees and scattering them across the sidewalks like warnings. Halloween decorations went up — fake spiders, plastic gravestones, smiling skeletons. None of it felt fake enough.
The moving truck was a bluff.
Paige shut it down in under three minutes, citing harassment, misrepresentation, and a pending Fair Housing investigation. The driver apologized, embarrassed. Grant’s SUV peeled away without a word.
But the message had landed.
“He wants us isolated,” Eli said later, wrapping his hands around a mug he hadn’t touched. “Scared enough to make mistakes.”
Grant made his next move through the courts.
The defamation suit expanded. Subpoenas arrived. Phones, laptops, cloud accounts — everything was subject to review.
“Do they get my DMs?” Mateo asked, panicked.
Paige didn’t look up. “If relevant.”
Mateo made a noise of genuine despair.
Lila resurfaced mid-month.
She didn’t call. She emailed, from a burner address, with one sentence:
“I’m not safe. He’s offering money.”
Alex stared at the screen. “He’s trying to buy her silence.”
“Or her story,” Nora said.
Denise confirmed it. “He’s claiming the fire was electrical. No wrongdoing.”
“But code enforcement found accelerants,” Jonah said.
“Yes,” Denise replied. “Which is why this is dangerous.”
Grant escalated publicly.
A story appeared in a local business blog: Developer Targeted by Radical Activists in Marmalade District. No names, but details were unmistakable. Seven roommates. Pride flags. “Unsubstantiated claims.”
Eli read it three times, nausea rising.
“They’re painting us as extremists,” he said.
Mateo scoffed. “I own three houseplants and cry at commercials.”
Halloween approached, usually their favorite. This year, it felt like bait.
Grant hosted a fundraiser.
At his house.
For “neighborhood restoration.”
Invitations landed in nearby mailboxes. Not theirs.
“Of course he’s doing this,” Nora said. “Optics.”
On October 30th, someone egged their house.
Not hard. Not destructive.
Just enough.
A note taped to the door:
GO BACK TO CALIFORNIA
Mateo ripped it down. “I’m from Provo!”
Police took a report. Again. Nothing happened.
That night, Eli couldn’t sleep. He went downstairs for water.
The front door was ajar.
Just slightly.
Outside, footsteps crunched.
Eli froze.
A figure moved near the porch. Hoodie. Phone out. Flash on.
Eli slammed the door and locked it, heart pounding.
The next morning, Denise called early.
“They’re reopening the fire investigation,” she said. “New evidence.”
“What kind?” Paige asked.
“A witness,” Denise replied. “Someone who saw Grant the night of the fire.”
Eli’s phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
“I saw him pour it.”
Below it, a photo.
Grant.
In his backyard.
Holding a gas can.
And behind him, reflected in the window.
Someone else.
Someone Eli recognized.
Mateo.
