Mike called one evening. "Dude, it's bad. Jake turned out to be a total scammer."
From what I pieced together, Jake wasn't the charming adventurer she'd painted. He was a grifter preying on tourists and transplants. He convinced her to invest in his business venture, some vague scheme about event planning in Vegas. She wired him most of her savings—the money I'd helped her build up.
It unraveled fast. He cleaned out her account, ghosted her, and vanished. Police report filed, but good luck in a place like that; scams are a dime a dozen.
She was stranded. No job—she'd burned bridges quitting without notice. No money. Rent due on a crappy apartment she'd signed for. No support.
Her friends back home? They'd stopped defending her after the truth leaked.
"We warned her," Mike said, "but she was so smug about it."
Isolation hit hard. She'd alienated our circle with her justifications, and Vegas wasn't the welcoming paradise she'd imagined. Hated the heat, the crowds, the loneliness. Her blog went silent, replaced by desperate job hunts online.
It felt earned, realistic. Not some cartoon villain downfall, but the consequences of her choices: ditching stability for a fake thrill, manipulating our history to justify it. I didn't gloat, just noted the irony. She'd discarded me like a backup plan, and now she was the one unraveled, broke, alone in a city that chewed her up.
The attempts started small, about a week after the scam blew up. First, a text from an unknown number. Hers, I guessed, since I'd blocked her old one:
Alex, it's Zoe. I need to talk. Made a huge mistake.
I stared at it, feeling nothing but mild annoyance. No response.
Then calls, voicemails piling up. I listened to one: