“How long have you played the guitar?” she asked.

“A while.”

“Did your grandfather teach you?”

“Yeah, after my mother died. He taught me all her favorite songs. The one I was playing when you got here was one of them. She used to sing it to me a lot.”

“Aw, I love that. What else did she sing?”

“Just about everything. ‘When You Come Around,’ ‘Free Falling,’ ‘Interstate Love Song,’ ‘Faithfully,’ and a bunch of other oldies. What about you? How did you learn to play?”

“I taught myself when I was twelve so I could teach Zander to play.”

“Isn’t he older than you?”

“Yes, but he has dyslexia, and when he took lessons, he got frustrated trying to read music, so I learned and taught him.”

“To read music?”

“No, but we found ways around that. He’s incredibly talented, and he plays by ear.”

“That’s impressive, and your helping him is impressive, too.”

“No, it’s not. That’s what you do for family, like how you helped your sister.”

And then hurt her in the worst way possible.

“We all help each other,” she said. “Zeke basically walked Zander through every assignment when he was in school to make sure he passed. He even went to community college his first year just to stick around and help Zan, to make sure he graduated.”

Her voice was thick with admiration, and Tobias liked getting that glimpse into her family. “Zeke sounds like a good guy.”

“He’s the best.”

“What’s he into?”

“He’s a nature lover and a fact hoarder. I swear his brain is one big encyclopedia, and he’s unbelievably patient. At least most of the time. He doesn’t do well with bullies.”

“What do you mean? People bully him?”

“No way,” she said. “I’d hate to see the fool who tried to bully any of my brothers. Zeke was a special ed teacher until someone made a comment about the kids and he beat the shit out of him and lost his job. Now he works with Zander and our father at our family’s renovation company.”

Tobias took note of what she said, and all he could think about was that Zeke was lucky the guy didn’t die. How fucked up was that?

“Anyway, Zan and I write songs together.”

“I remember him mentioning that the night we met. Play me one.” He reached for the guitar, lifting it out of the case.

As he handed it to her, she leaned around it and grabbed his notebook from the guitar case. “What’s this?”

He snagged it from her, his chest knotting up. “Shit. You don’t need to see.”

“Sorry. I know we’re not…I didn’t mean to pry.”

She started to get up, but he pulled her back down between his legs, belting one arm across her. “It’s not that. I don’t share it with anyone.” He didn’t know if it was the deflation of her tone or the emotions rattling the chains of the dungeon, or both, but he wanted to give her some kind of explanation so she would see that it wasn’t just her. “I write to get over shit and figure things out.”