***Anonymous POV***
The swamp reeks of gasoline and charred sage. From the shadows of the mangroves, I watch the Lou Nwa camp through night-vision binoculars, the green-tinted world sharpening into focus. The girl—*Dru*—kneels beside her aunt’s cot, a pistol trembling in her hands. Louise circles her like a vulture, pearls glinting in the moonlight like fragments of bone.
'Eh, ma fille (Ah, my girl,)," she crooned, her Creole accent thicker than I remember —syrup-sweet and venomous. “Look at you—playing nurse to a ghost.”
Dru’s finger tightens on the trigger. **“I’m not your *fille*.”**
**“No,”** Louise smiles, revolver drifting toward Marisol’s temple. **“You’re bait.”**
I lower the binoculars, stifling a laugh. *Amateurs.* Louise thinks she’s luring Danni out for the ledger. Es
