“I guess so, in a way,” he said, pulling down his aviator sunglasses and adjusting the truck’s sun flap.

Like an artifact in a museum, that guitar still sat in the radio station, along with ten others, including Rickenbackers, Gibsons, and Fenders.

Morrison’s own father had purchased a headstone for his son. Lara read the Greek inscription—KATA TON DAIMONA EAYTOY—which means “according to his own daemon” or “true or faithful to his own spirit,” depending upon how much lore you wanted to attach to it. Much like the music legend of Robert Johnson, another idea that circulated for years was that, having faked his own death, Jim Morrison was still alive somewhere. These were great stories, but she wasn’t sure either of them had much truth. It was funny really; if anyone should have been a believer after all she’d seen, it should have been her. She took a picture of the grave, for her father.

From there, Lara walked up the hill toward section 85 to see Marcel Proust’s grave, noticing the broken columns of people who died violently, usually young. As she turned left on Avenue Transversale, one of the main tree-lined boulevards of the cemetery, she saw something moving out of the corner of her eye. Turning slowly, she pretended to be consulting a paper in her hand. There standing fifty feet behind her was a woman with a low blond ponytail, bangs that looked to be a wig, and cat’s-eye sunglasses. When Lara turned, the woman immediately attempted to look occupied. Lara glanced to her right, but there was nothing behind her. Something about the woman’s stance suggested purpose, not a leisurely stroll. Lara thought she must be getting paranoid, so she continued to walk up the hill toward the crematorium at a faster clip, winding around the random headstones, then the writer Molière’s grave, before ducking into the row early and making a fast right turn that led in a circle down the hill and took her back to Jim Morrison’s grave.