The anger didn’t come from shame—it came from the setup. Civilians had been sleeping there, unknowingly part of an operation that wasn’t even theirs.
“Are we in trouble?” I asked.
“Not criminally. Just stay quiet online,” Mistry said.
We stayed silent for a week—until the messages came. Blank Instagram accounts, creepy voicemails, camera emojis, our names, our street. Then Pilar’s cousin Tomas posted a TikTok tour. Blink-blink-blink in the background. 300,000 views and climbing.
Threats escalated. Pilar’s car got keyed. The local police shrugged: maybe unrelated. Nothing felt unrelated.
Pilar wanted out. We fled to her sister’s place in Temecula, but I couldn’t shake the loose thread: why was the house still listed? On a burner account, I checked. Live. Same photos, same price. I booked it. Pilar called me reckless—and she was right.
The house looked unchanged. Smoke detector fresh, no blinking. At 2 a.m., footsteps crossed the back porch. A man in a hoodie and cap stood there, didn’t knock again, melted into the dark.
I drove to the local precinct. Detective Ko listened, wrote everything down, nodded when others would’ve shrugged.
A week later, the house was raided. Cameras, clocks, vents, a second smoke detector. No “federal asset.” No Agent Mistry. The host, Faraz Rehmani, had livestreamed guests and sold access online. The threats were part of his ecosystem—fear kept people quiet long enough to erase evidence.
Airbnb refunded our stay, issued a statement, offered a coupon. We sued. Won enough for a down payment on a small house in Healdsburg. Every smoke detector replaced with one I bought myself.
No more short-term rentals. Hotels aren’t perfect, but their cameras stay where cameras belong. Pilar started an advocacy group: spotting lenses, reporting unsafe listings, navigating platforms that dismiss real danger. Tomas deleted TikTok—and now shows up with pies unannounced.
The moral? Trust that low hum in your gut. Ask questions. Keep asking when someone makes you feel foolish. Sometimes truth isn’t stranger than fiction—it’s exactly like fiction: a blinking red light you were trained to ignore.