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.