Travis Turner sat behind his mahogany desk, its surface a landscape of papers and digital devices. His piercing blue eyes flickered across the screen of his laptop, where he had been meticulously cataloguing every person who had access to the drinks served that night- the night he and Camila were drugged.

　　"Come on, there's got to be something here," he muttered under his breath. His fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up security footage, cross-referencing staff ...