I watched from my car across the road with Denise on speaker and a county officer parked behind me.
Gatlinburg required a valid short-term rental permit, a business tax license, and a posted emergency contact for legal rentals. My cabin had none of those because I had never rented it short term. Eric had not checked. My parents had not cared.
The county officer walked up first. I followed.
Eric’s smile dropped when he saw me. “What are you doing here?”
“Watching you manage your business,” I said.
Dad stepped between us. “Maya, don’t ruin this.”
The officer asked who had taken payment and presented the property as a rental. Eric started speaking too quickly. Dad admitted he had authorized the locksmith. Mom said they were family and assumed permission was “implied.”
Denise arrived twenty minutes later with a printed packet, not for drama, but because she knew paper made liars nervous. She showed the deed, my written refusal from the family group chat, and screenshots of Eric’s listing.
The guests were furious, but not at me. They had paid Eric. They had driven four hours. Their vacation was falling apart in my driveway.
Eric tried to whisper, “Just let them stay one weekend.”
“No,” I said. “This is not a rental. It is evidence.”
The officer issued citations and ordered everyone unauthorized to leave. The guests demanded refunds immediately. Eric’s face went pale when one of them mentioned fraud.
Dad turned to me, suddenly softer. “You made your point.”
I looked at the broken lock still lying beside the porch.
“No,” I said. “I’m just getting started.”
