(Abby is in Gibbs' basement, working on his boat, talking with him, and getting herself drunk)
Abby: I don't understand why people drink alcohol when they're depressed. Because alcohol is a depressant. Now, I'm so depressed. And I'm nauseous. And I'm really drunk. Which means that tomorrow I have to go fight a hangover while I'm in court, while some ambulance chasing attorney tries to attack my credibility. What is wrong with me, Gibbs? What did I do to deserve this?
Gibbs: It's not about you, Abby. It's about him.
Abby: Then why do I feel so guilty?
Gibbs: I don't know. Why do you?
Abby: Because... I think this might all be my fault.
Gibbs: Maybe it is.
Abby: How could you say that to me, Gibbs? I didn't do anything wrong. Just because some defective lunatic can't get it through his thick skull that I think he is a defective lunatic. That is not my fault, Gibbs. That's not my fault at all. This is not my fault! It's not my fault? I see why you like to work on you boat, Gibbs. It's very, very cathartic. (Abby hammers a piece of wood on the partially-made boat, breaking off that piece.) Oops... Suddenly, having a stalker on the loose isn't so scary.