Next he trudged over to the bathroom. The door swung open to a new design ecosystem. Asian grays and soothing cobalts. Big interlocking bamboo tiles, as hard as stone, lined the walls. A rain showerhead protruded from the wall, unencumbered by a stall. Beneath it the floor sloped to a drain. Resting beside the drain, a single bar of unwrapped soap and a fluffy bamboo-shoot-patterned towel with scalloped edges befitting a fine hotel. No cabinets, no drawers. On the floor next to the lidless and tankless metal toilet, a trash-can liner rested in the spot where a bin might go.

A wall mirror floated above two sinks scooped from a single slab of floating granite. Evan drew closer, eyeing not his reflection but the mirror itself. It was recessed, set behind a plate of armored glass.

He took advantage of the mirror to check his bruised ribs more thoroughly. The needle prick at his neck looked to be healed and gone, but a crimson dot in the crook of his elbow showed where a line had been inserted. They’d kept him out, all right, feeding who knew what drugs into his system.

A prison toothbrush rested between the sinks. Prepasted, with a stubby handle made of flexible rubber. The mint tasted chalky but did the trick, scrubbing the medicinal coating from his teeth.

He splashed cold water over his face and then leaned against the jamb, regarding the well-appointed bedroom. His own holding pen in his own dollhouse.

It struck him that this was precisely the kind of situation that other people called him for.

The inconvenience of this mystery detour made him angry. It was costing him time better spent tracking down Alison Siegler, who was currently trapped inside Container 78653-B812, as terrified as it was possible for a seventeen-year-old girl to be.

He strode across the room and threw back the heavy curtains. The sight beyond the balcony made the breath snag in his throat. The view, segmented by welded steel bars at the balustrade, showed mountains blanketed with white pines.

It took a moment for the shock to subside. When he twisted the lock and shoved open the sliding glass door, cold air cut straight through his clothes. Rain turned to snow at around thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and the temperature was flirting with that now, the flitting drops hard and angry, hungry for transformation.

He wasn’t just “not in L.A.” He was nowhere near L.A.

Wherever he was, it was on the floor of a valley. The sun, a blurred splotch of gold, hovered above a ridge to the left. Dusk? Dawn?