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you could talk.” That’d make everything a whole lot easier.
    I was sitting on the step of the trailer, arms outstretched, ankles crossed, soaking in a little sun with my eyes closed when Hudson returned. He plopped down beside me, shifting the trailer fractionally. The top hat was gone, and the terrier was normal size again, minus the Monopoly square.
    “There’s good news and bad news. Good news: I have a phone, crappy as this burner is.” He held up a small black flip phone. “The guy over there had a phone book, so I found us a car rental place. Bad news: No one around here rents horse trailers. That meant trucks were not an option since we’re trying to keep Kyoko out of sight, and they didn’t have any work vans, so I went with the next-best thing. A Suburban.”
    I knew cars like I knew HBO’s fall lineup, which was to say, not at all. When you can’t drive and every vehicle you get in breaks down after one use, what’s the point of learning more about cars? “Remind me what a Suburban is.”
    “Big SUV. Hopefully, there’ll be enough clearance to fit an elephant.”
    That’d make a great slogan for a billboard ad. A vehicle so big, it can fit an elephant.
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “Hold off on the thanks until we see if she fits.” He leaned back against the hot side of the trailer and closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the step with his hands. “What a day.”
    My gaze slid down the tanned column of his neck. His shirt had flattened against his pectorals and bunched across his stomach. He was lean, but I could see muscle definition under the contours of the thin cotton. Visions of six-pack abs had my mouth watering, and I forced myself to look away, but it wasn’t long before my gaze drifted back. He looked like a model in repose, right down to the disgruntled expression.
    Muffling a sigh, I forced my eyes closed and tried to think with my brain instead of my ovaries.
    “How are we going to get the Suburban?”
    “They bring it to you. Part of their shtick. We just have to drive the guy back to his office.”
    “Convenient.”
    I shifted my bag closer. I’d used some of the time Hudson had been gone to go through it, straightening what Kyoko and Hudson had messed up. Now I pulled out a water bottle and the remaining packet of crackers. These had peanut butter sandwiched between two tiny Ritz. I cracked open the plastic and offered one to Hudson. He took it, proving his eyes were open behind his shades.
    “Do you always pretend to be the boyfriend of women you’ve just met?” I asked after I chewed my cracker sandwich.
    “Only those with red hair. What about you? Do you always kidnap men who pretend to be your boyfriend?”
    “Only the tall ones.”
    Hudson grinned and took another cracker.
    “Is there anything important I should know about you?” I asked. “I mean, I know your name and that you work for a security company, but, well . . .”
    “Am I a serial killer in my spare time?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Let’s see. I’m twenty-seven. I don’t have any pets. I like football. And I have no desire to be in a movie.”
    “What? You live in LA and don’t aspire to being an actor? I’m shocked.”
    “I’m the lone man left. What about you? Any plans for stardom?”
    “No, thank you. I’m quite happy as a feng shui consultant.”
    “A what?”
    “It’s like a specialized form of interior design,” I clarified, more than used to the question. “Basically feng shui is a practice of arranging your environment to suit, attract, and maintain the life you want.”
    “That sounds . . . New Agey.”
    “Ancient Chinese, actually, but I can see how you’d say that. There’s a lot of chi flow and energy movement to what I do, but also a lot of organization and spatial arrangement.”
    “Huh. So you do what? Go into people’s homes and fluff their chi?”
    I recognized his attitude. I got it from about half the people I encountered. It seemed you were either a