Bad, Bad, Bad, Bad Roommate

The wildfires that would come to engulf Los Angeles had just begun to burn when Frankee Grove finally admitted to herself that she needed a roommate. It was January 2025, and Grove, then 42, had recently broken up with her boyfriend of six years. They had lived together in a two-bedroom Spanish bungalow on a quaint street in Venice. For Grove, this rental — with its vegetable garden and hardwood floors, arched doorways, and terra-cotta roof — had come to feel like a home. But she couldn’t afford the $5,100 monthly rent by herself. She needed to find a subletter, but her spare time was spoken for: She was volunteering to help those impacted by the wildfires currently ravaging the Pacific Palisades. Grove, a dedicated empath and striving progressive who has two decades of experience in education, always tried to see the good in others, and she wanted to embody those qualities herself. Still, she was bleeding cash. Grove eventually turned to Facebook, hoping to find someone who could move in quickly. She connected with a woman named Sabrina Mollison, whose online persona was classic SoCal: A fledgling fitness influencer, she posted Instagram reels of herself working out in expensive athleisure, posed for selfies in full-length mirrors, and affixed aspirational (but fairly banal) captions under day-in-the-life content (“Trust the process” and “You can’t make progress if you don’t start”). Grove, who grew up in Massachusetts to teacher parents and had a decidedly more bohemian vibe — she launched a botanical side hustle, sported a surfer-girl haircut, and summered on Cape Cod — believed that their incompatibility might be a good thing. They didn’t need to be friends. Lately, her life was defined by instability. Grove welcomed a simple, transactional relationship. Mollison arrived for a tour wearing a workout uniform and a thick layer of makeup. Grove showed her the house. Mollison appeared underwhelmed, her affect flat, but said she would rent the room for Grove’s reques