6. Grath #2
The phone buzzes. I ignore it. Probably more comments. More strangers deciding who I am based on a doctored image and their own biases.
Pebble headbutts my chin. Impatient.
"Yeah. Okay. Food."
I stand. Move through the motions. Scoop kibble. Refill water. Watch him attack breakfast like it personally offended him.
Maris thinks I'm catastrophizing. Maybe I am. But I've seen this before. Watched people I cared about suffer because they were associated with me.
Better to cut ties now. Before it gets worse.
The thought sits heavy. Wrong.
But practical.
I've never been good at practical. Always led with my gut. My fists. Got me into trouble more times than I can count.
Maybe it's time to be smart instead of stubborn.
I pull out the phone. Search for cheap rooms outside town. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can disappear without causing more damage.
The listings blur together. All identical. Small. Temporary. Lonely.
My chest aches.
I don't want to leave. Don't want to lose the warmth of Maris's kitchen and Pebble's ridiculous antics and the way the café smells like coffee and safety.
But wanting something doesn't make it right. Doesn't make it safe. Doesn't mean I get to be selfish when people I care about are paying the price.
Footsteps again on the stairs outside. Heavier this time. Deliberate. The kind of stride that means someone's coming with purpose, not just passing by on their way to another unit.
I tense immediately. My shoulders lock. Every muscle coils tight, ready for confrontation or flight. I turn toward the door, half-expecting another angry neighbor or maybe even a reporter who tracked down my address.
Maris stands instead. Arms crossed over her chest. That worn denim apron still tied around her waist, smudged with what looks like cinnamon and flour. Her expression is unreadable, mouth set in a flat line, eyes sharp and assessing. Not angry, exactly. But not soft either.
She knows. Of course she knows. Probably came straight here the moment she realized what I was planning.
"You're looking at apartments," she says.
Not a question. A statement. Flat. Certain.
My throat tightens. I glance down at the phone still glowing in my hand, the list of rental postings on the screen like evidence of my cowardice.
"Yeah," I admit. No point lying. Never been good at it anyway.
"Stop."
One word. Blunt as a hammer.
"Maris—" I start, already searching for the right way to explain. To make her understand why this is necessary. Why I have to go before things get worse.
"No. Listen. I just got off the phone with Cara. You remember Cara? Runs the bookshop two streets over?"
I nod.
"She recognized the photo. It's not Pebble. It's her cat. Mochi. Taken three months ago when he got out during a storm. She posted it everywhere looking for him. Someone cropped it. Made it look recent."
The information lands like a blow.
"So it's definitely fake."
"Definitely. And Cara's furious. She's already commenting on the post. Calling out the lie. Other shop owners are backing her up."
Relief floods through me. Then suspicion.
"Why would someone fake this? Just for clicks?"
"Maybe. Or maybe someone wants you gone."
The words hang between us.
"The developer."
"That's what I'm thinking. This feels targeted. Too convenient. Right after we started digging into their shady tactics."
I consider that. Turn it over. It fits. Too well.
"If they want me gone, leaving plays into their hands."
"Exactly."
"But staying puts you at risk."
"I'm already at risk. We both are. Running doesn't change that."
She moves closer. Takes my hand. Squeezes.
"So we don't run. We fight."
The anger shifts. Redirects. No longer pointed inward.
Someone tried to destroy me. Tried to use my past and people's prejudice as a weapon.
I've faced worse in the area. At least there the enemy was visible.
"Okay." My voice comes out rough. "What do we do?"
Maris smiles. Sharp and bright.
"We expose them. Publicly. Loudly. Make it impossible for them to keep operating in the shadows."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But I will. Give me an hour and a whiteboard."
Despite everything, I laugh. "You're terrifying when you're angry."
"Good. Remember that next time you try to make decisions for me."
"Yes ma'am."
She pulls me down. Kisses me quick. Then releases me and heads back toward the stairs.
"Feed yourself too. You're no good to me if you pass out from low blood sugar."
"Romantic."
"I'm a businesswoman. Romance doesn't—"
"—pay the bills. Yeah. I remember."
She grins over her shoulder. Then disappears.
I stand alone in the kitchen. Pebble finished eating. Now grooming himself with intense focus.
The anger is still there. But cleaner now. Purposeful.
Someone wants me gone. Wants to use fear and lies to drive me out.
They picked the wrong fight.
I've survived worse than internet rumors. Survived chains and blood and crowds screaming for my death.
I'm not running from pixels and doctored photos.
I'm staying. And whoever's behind this is going to regret making me visible.
Maris spreads papers across the café counter. Late afternoon light slants through the windows. Makes the space feel amber and safe.
I watch her work. The way her brow furrows when she concentrates. The way she taps her pen against her teeth.
She's been at this for hours. Cross-referencing names. Dates. Incidents.
"Here." She stabs a finger at a printout. "Janelle Kovic. Assistant to Marcus Thorne. The developer."
"Okay."
"She was at the fundraiser. I remember because she asked weird questions. About our lease. About how long I'd been operating. Whether I owned the building or rented."
"Lots of people ask questions at fundraisers."
"Not like this. She was fishing. And look." Maris slides another page across. "Three other businesses on this street closed in the last year. All of them had sudden problems right before they folded. Burst pipes. Health code violations. Mysterious vandalism."
I lean forward over the counter, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from the papers.
My shadow falls across her work. Study the timeline she's sketched out.
Dates and names and little notes in her precise handwriting.
The pattern's there if you know how to look.
If you've seen cruelty dressed up as opportunity before.
"You think she's sabotaging tenants?" My voice comes out harder than I mean it to. "Deliberately breaking things? Hurting people's livelihoods?"
"I think she's creating pressure points." Maris doesn't look up. Keeps her finger moving down the page, tracing connections. "Strategic weaknesses. Making it easier for Thorne to swoop in and buy cheap when everyone's desperate and broken."
The words sit heavy between us. I feel my jaw tighten.
"That's. Evil." Simple word. Only one that fits.
"That's real estate." Her tone is dry. Bitter. Like she's tasted this truth before and knows exactly how it goes down.
I shake my head. Humans. Orcs fight direct. Fists and blood and clear outcomes. This sneaking around, destroying lives from the shadows—it's worse.
"How do we prove it?" The question feels heavy on my tongue. All this knowledge, all these patterns Maris has laid out so carefully—and still we're grasping at smoke.
"That's the problem." She leans back in her chair, one hand rubbing at her temple like she can massage the frustration away.
"It's all circumstantial. Patterns aren't evidence.
No court's going to care that three businesses failed in suspicious succession unless we can draw a direct line from Thorne's hand to each disaster. "
I think. Let the pieces turn over in my mind. Slow and deliberate. Like sorting through my tin of tokens, looking for the one that matters.
"The photo," I say finally. "The one they used. Someone had to doctor it. Fake it. Send it out to all those people. Maybe we can trace that? Find who did the work?"
"Already tried." Her voice goes flat. Defeated. "Posted from a burner account on some generic image-sharing site. No registration info. No IP tracking. Complete dead end."
I grunt. Of course it is. These people know how to hide.
"What about Cara's cat, then?" The idea comes together as I speak it. "If we can prove they used her image without permission, took her photo and twisted it into something false. That's something. Right? There has to be some kind of law against that."
Maris pauses. Goes still. Then she looks up at me, and something shifts in her expression. Recognition. Hope.
"That's actually not bad." She's already reaching for a fresh piece of paper, pen moving before she's finished speaking.
"Copyright infringement at minimum. Harassment.
Possibly defamation if we can prove malicious intent.
It's not enough to pin the whole scheme on her—not yet—but it's a start.
It's something concrete we can take to the authorities. "
She scribbles notes. Fast and focused.
I watch. This. This is why I stayed. Not just because Maris demanded it. But because together we're stronger. Smarter.
Alone I would've run. Hidden. Let the accusations fester.
With her, I fight.
"We need proof she's connected to the account." Maris taps the printout. "Something concrete."
"How do we get that?" I ask, though part of me already suspects the answer won't be one I like.
She looks up from her notes. Eyes bright with the kind of focused intensity I've learned means she's committed to something reckless. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with physical threat and everything to do with calculated risk.
"We set a trap," she says simply.
"This is a terrible plan," I say for what must be the third time in as many minutes.
Maris doesn't even glance up from where she's adjusting the angle of the small camera. "You said that already."
"Because it's true." I shift my weight, arms crossed tight enough that my shoulders ache. "Because saying it once didn't make you listen."