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The trail led her through the alleys of the French Quarter, past tarot readers who shuddered when she showed the photo, and into a basement juke joint called “The Drowned Piano.” The air smelled of chicory coffee and regret. Behind the bar stood a one-eyed man named Gutter, who scratched a patchy beard and squinted at the picture.

“For what?” Mars asked.

Gutter pointed a gnarled finger at the cat in the photograph. “All Cat don’t like humans. But it loves three things: raw shrimp, a lullaby sung in a minor key, and the scent of a person who’s truly alone. You got any of those?” Searching for- lily labeau rion king in-All Cat...

“Where’s the lock?” Mars asked.

But on the floor, curled asleep, was a small black kitten with one green eye and one gold. It purred in a minor key. The trail led her through the alleys of