It was a standard double room, washed in the sterile, artificial light of a mid-tier chain hotel. Two queen-sized beds with stiff-looking navy comforters sat parallel, a nightstand and lamp between them like a demilitarized zone. A large window, currently showing a view of a brick wall and a sliver of distant, twinkling city lights, dominated one wall. A small desk, a television bolted to a dresser, and a door leading to a bathroom completed the set.

George Davidson stood just inside the doorway, his black duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He hadn't moved. His dark eyes swept the room once, his expression unreadable.