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 lists with their backgrounds.
"Anyone with a motive, anyone disgruntled..." Travis continued his silent mantra, each name he cleared tightening the knot in his stomach. Someone targeted them, and the question of 'who' hovered over him like a persistent shadow.
Every so often, he glanced at his phone, expecting a call or message about Camila's performance. He had made it abundantly clear to his assistant, "The moment you hear about Camila's final, you let me know."