Olive Aubert

. . .

Something is wrong with Jesse Wall. His skin is too cold, teeth too sharp, eyes too dark. There's something wrong with the way he walks, how he carries himself. He's too swift in his snakeskin boots, steps a whisper on the saloon floor. There's something wrong with the way he speaks, voice so soft the wind could get swept up with it. All of these things might be a coincidence if it weren't for one final detail. Jesse Wall had died twenty-three years ago.

. . .