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"I trusted him, and look at what he did to me!"

I take a look around the place. Yep, he certainly cleaned her out. Her apartment looks pretty bare without the high def flatscreen T.V. or the stereo system or the computer station complete with recording equipment. And she's just slumped over on the floor, surrounded by piles of receipts and transaction records, her mom's phone in her hand because he even stole that.

She paws listlessly at the receipts on the floor. "The bank's assessing the damage. Meanwhile my accounts are locked." She looks up at me with tearfully brimming eyes, and I have to remind myself: this isn't about me. And when she asks she doesn't use any of her usual tricks - the coy innocent look, the squeaky high voice. She doesn't show any leg or tell me it's my chance to prove myself to her or any of the other countless ways she's used me in the past.

“Will you help me?”

Her eyes widen when I step forward and pull out the gun. Crouching down, I set it on the floor, along with a piece of paper. His current address.

This isn't about me.