“Nah, I’m going to try Père Lachaise instead.” The last time Lara was in Paris, she’d failed to see Jim Morrison’s grave. Her father wouldn’t forgive her if she didn’t make the pilgrimage on this trip. After that, she’d thought about going to the Rue Mouffetard and the cafés that Cecile mentioned in her diary.

“Jim Morrison is so touristy.” Gaston frowned. “Maybe go see Sartre’s grave instead?”

“Wrong cemetery,” said Lara. “But I may do that when I’m over at Montparnasse. I know, I’m so American.” She looked at him gravely.

“There is hope for you yet. At least see Proust while you’re at Lachaise.”

“That,” she said, grabbing a pain au chocolat on her way out, “I will do.”

As she rode down the boulevards in her taxi, she could smell the linden trees blooming above her, the sweet smell reminiscent of honeysuckle. The driver let her out at the Père Lachaise entrance gate on the Boulevard de Ménilmontant. After consulting the map, Lara walked up the hill on the cobblestone path through the thick canopy of trees, weaving among old stones with their layers of moss and untended tombstones covered in weeds. After winding around, she made a hard right and followed a group of people who were clearly Americans and about her father’s age, so she took a bet which grave they were visiting. Within moments, she found a group gathered in front of the modest headstone of James Douglas Morrison, lead singer of the Doors. The site was overflowing with a number of trinkets, flowers, and photos of the musician in front of his concrete slab, causing the cemetery to require a barricade.

The Lizard King was one of her father’s great music idols, and that legacy had been passed down to her. Jason Barnes was one of the true anchors of her life. While her mother was a reminder of who she was—the daughter of a famous family of circus owners—her father was the catalyst to show her who she could become. Without him, she never would have had the courage to buy a radio station. For both of them, music was always the door to where they could go next. It still pained her to think of the way he’d looked at her the other night as she’d played Peter Beaumont’s song.