Chapter 5 - The Influencer’s Web
While we waited for Deputy Vance, I pulled up my phone.
I hadn't checked social media in months, but I opened Instagram and typed in my sister's handle: *@OliviaHartLiving*.
Her profile picture was a professional portrait of her looking wistfully out over a sun-drenched vineyard, her hair glowing with backlit golden-hour perfection. Her bio read: *Curator of Slow Living | Mountain Modern Design | Mama to Bentley the Frenchie | Founder of The Hart Collection.*
Her latest story had been posted twenty-five minutes ago.
I tapped the screen.
The video opened with a soft, acoustic indie-folk soundtrack. The camera panned slowly across my great room. The soapstone fireplace was glowing. The table was laden with charcuterie boards and artisanal bread. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the San Juan Mountains stood majestic against the twilight sky.
Olivia’s face appeared on screen, her skin radiant, a faux fur throw draped elegantly over her shoulder.
"So many of you have been asking about our big announcement," she said, her voice dropping into that hushed, reverent tone reserved for luxury brand reveals. "Jason and I are beyond thrilled to finally share our new venture: *The Hart Alpine Sanctuary*. We’ve acquired this historic mining lodge in the heart of the Rockies, and we’re transforming it into a luxury retreat for creative leaders. Every detail—from these hand-planed timber beams to the custom soapstone hearth—was chosen to reflect our family’s deep heritage in these mountains."
The camera panned to Jason, who waved casually while pouring another glass of my father’s Weller.
"We’re opening for bookings starting in January," Olivia continued, beaming at the lens. "Swipe up to join the waitlist. First twenty guests get an exclusive invitation to our private winter solstice retreat. Huge thank you to our brand partners @ArtisanHomeCo and @VerveLiving for furnishing our dream."
I watched the screen, my heart pounding with an icy, surgical clarity.
She had tagged five different corporate sponsors. She was already taking deposits. She had turned my home—the place where I had cried after my father died, the place where I had bled, the place I had built as a refuge from the exhaustion of my life—into a monetized content farm.
"Look at this," I said, sliding the phone across the desk to Wyatt.
Wyatt watched the thirty-second video without expression. When it finished, he tapped the screen once, pausing on the frame showing Jason holding my dad's bottle of bourbon.
"That's evidence," Wyatt said calmly. "Commercial exploitation of private property without an operating license, unauthorized brand promotions on unpermitted residential zoning, and wire fraud if they’re taking deposits across state lines for a property they don't own."
The front door of the workshop clicked open, accompanied by a gust of swirling snow.
A tall man in a heavy shearling-lined sheriff’s department jacket walked in, stamping his boots on the mat. He was broad-shouldered, with a weathered face, cold gray eyes, and a Glock 21 holstered on his hip.
"Wyatt," the deputy said, nodding. He looked over at me, tipping his Stetson slightly. "Rebecca. Heard you had some uninvited guests up at the old foreman’s place."
"Deputy Vance," I said, standing up. "It’s worse than uninvited. They broke into the house, stole my records, and they’re currently advertising commercial bookings to a quarter of a million people on the internet."
Deputy Vance pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket and clicked a pen.
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"Well," he said with a grim, thin-lipped smile. "The county road crew just dropped the gate at the bottom of the pass. Nothing’s going up, and nothing’s coming down until the plows run on Tuesday. If we’re going to evict thirty people from a mountain house, we better do it before the blizzard drops two feet of drift across the driveway."
***
