It wasn’t long before Jud opened the door, his arms filled with boxes and a big grin on his broad face. He dumped the boxes on the bed. “Them’s the finest gowns and underthings all the way from Paris, France,” he boasted. “Silks and satins and the like. And in that little box, they’s a diamond and ruby thing you wear in your hair. I forget what it’s called.” “Tiara?” she asked. “Yeah! That’s it, all right. I bought it all just for you, Doreen.” “But I don’t want any of these things!” Jud ignored that. Waved it away. Then he began to pout. “But I bought them just for you,” he said, a sulky tone in his voice. Doreen looked at the bulk of the man, lifting her eyes to his. She could plainly see the madness in his eyes; the same kind of madness she had refused—at first—to see in Clint’s eyes. Clint Perkins, Jud Vale’s own flesh and blood. And in that instant, she realized something else: that if she was going to survive, she had best humor Jud. But that thought, or warning, flew right out the window as Jud opened more boxes.
