For a few seconds, both Natalie and Brigit stared. The precise, quick response hadn’t been what they’d expected.
“You…you remember so well,” Liam commented.
“Of course I do,” DuBois said matter-of-factly. “How could I forget such a special night with my beautiful Brigit. She came back to me, on that night. I knew that husband of hers couldn’t be faithful to her. I knew it,”
Natalie’s mouth had gone bone-dry. She glanced anxiously at Liam, who appeared to have been frozen by DuBois’ words.
“Mr. DuBois,” she began. “I think we’ve taken enough of your time. You must be very tired—”
“1976?” Liam interrupted her. “Are you saying my mother—Brigit Darien—was with you in 1976? Are you certain?”
“Of course I am, do you think I’d forget a night like that?” DuBois asked. “Brigit was torn to pieces by what her husband had done. Maybe some would say she was just as unfaithful on that night with me, but they’d be wrong. They’d be dead wrong,” he said so firmly, so fiercely that Natalie had a glimpse of the decisive, charismatic man DuBois must once have been. She stared, anxiety, confusion and horror rising in her in equal measure.
She’d worried they might discover something that would further damage Liam’s opinion of his father. Now it seemed this investigation might make him question his mother, as well. Natalie had never felt so helpless in her life. There was nothing they could do to stop it. It was like standing beneath a gigantic avalanche, with nowhere to run.
The truth just kept spilling out of DuBois’ mouth.
“Brigit was mine before she was ever that fool’s from Chicago. Maybe we only had one night together, but who did she come to in her distress? Me.”
DuBois’ fierceness seemed to leak out of him as quickly as it had come. He sat slumped in his chair, staring at the table where the young, beautiful girl sat smiling on the horse, her image frozen in time.
“Brigit had a baby nine months after that. A mutual friend who lived in Chicago told me the news,” DuBois said feebly. Natalie cast a wild glance at Liam—the man was obviously failing—but Liam just stared at DuBois, a glazed, fixed expression on his face, as if he was watching a car wreck and couldn’t turn away from the spectacle.
“I asked her if the baby was mine,” DuBois continued weakly, “but she denied it…said the baby came following her reunion with her husband. She told me we couldn’t see each other after that, and we never did. It broke my heart when she told me that, just like it did when she told me that baby was her husband’s. I’d hoped so much she was mine…” he said, his voice trailing off as though he were musing to himself as he sat alone in the enormous room. “Both Brigit and that little girl. I’ll always remember what Brigit named her… Deidre Jean…”
It took Natalie a moment to realize that Nick Malone had entered the room and stood behind DuBois’ wheelchair.
“I think you two had better go.”
Liam’s eyes blazed as he looked at Malone. They cooled a few degrees when he glanced back at the man in the wheelchair. DuBois’ eyelids were drooping and his mouth was falling open slowly.
“Is he all right?” Liam asked, his expression masklike.
Malone nodded. “He usually falls asleep about this time in the afternoon. He tires easily. I’ll call his nurse. But first…” He waved toward the door significantly.
They had no choice but to stand and leave the man in the wheelchair to his dreams.
Liam wouldn’t let her drive. He was quiet when they got in the car, but calm.
“DuBois obviously has some sort of dementia,” Natalie said a few minutes later as they wound their way down the private, wooded drive.
“Yeah,” Liam said.
She studied his profile nervously. He’d sounded thoughtful just now, but he appeared nowhere near as shocked as she felt.
“Liam, I’m sure what he said upset you, but there’s no call for accepting it as truth. You saw how confused he got at times.”
“DuBois may have dementia, but his long-term memory is fine.”
“You mean…you actually believe what he said about your mother and New Year’s Eve and all that other stuff? But those were just some delusional beliefs coming from a man who could never have the woman he loved,” Natalie exclaimed.
“I’ve seen it before in police investigations,” Liam said levelly. “The memory for more recent events usually goes first. Sometimes DuBois remembered the name Kavanaugh, and sometimes he didn’t. Long-term memory often remains quite good, though. He’s never forgotten Brigit Darien.”
“But—”
“This was it,” he said, interrupting her.
“What was it?”