I took a few more steps down the alley and then stopped. Realization hit, spreading through my mind in a sickly gray cloud. No. No, no, it can’t be….

I ran back to the café and burst in through the rear door, eyes already on the table where I’d been sitting. My laptop was gone. So was my phone. So was my backpack.

And the guy who’d smiled at me was halfway across the café, my backpack in his arms, heading for the front door.

Everything was in that bag. Not just the laptop and phone he’d shoved into it but my money, my ID, my car keys…. “Stop!” I called, but my voice was swallowed up by the noise of the café. Why couldn’t I have a big, booming voice like my brother? “Somebody stop him!” I yelled. This time, a few heads turned and people frowned with concern, but it was too late: the guy was already hurrying past them.

I ran after him. I only have short legs but I put everything I had into running and, as the guy slowed to haul open the front door, I caught up. Just as he stepped out onto the street, I grabbed his shoulder. “Stop!”

He turned and scowled at me, all the warmth gone from his eyes. He shoved me in the chest and I skittered backwards, hit the door and went down hard on the sidewalk.

He smirked and his lip curled in disgust, like he couldn’t believe how easily I’d been fooled. I could see it all, now. How he’d picked out his target, the geeky girl on her own. The smile, to make me feel special and put me off guard. The story about the unconscious woman that made him seem like a caring, helpful hero.

I watched, tears filling my eyes, as the guy ran towards the curb, where his buddy sat waiting on a dirt bike.

I was an idiot. Of course a guy hadn’t been interested in me.

And there were no heroes.

Someone slammed into the guy, ramming him sideways like a semi-truck hitting a car at an intersection. The guy hit a wall and cried out: I thought I heard a bone snap. He crumpled and slid to the ground, dropping my backpack.

“You just stay there, sunshine,” said the man standing over him.

The accent was British, but not the British of butlers and tea parties. This was rough as brick, filthy as a smokestack. It was supremely cocky, completely unafraid. In the darkest alley in the worst city in the world, that accent would tell you to come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.

The guy on the dirt bike paled and roared off.