Darker Than Midnight by MAGGIE SHAYNE

lid up and peering inside. “And now she’s feeding me,” he muttered.
    Tupperware dishes lined the thing. He found one full of homemade rolls, and couldn’t stop himself from taking one. He bit into it, then felt Rex’s eyes on him, and saw the dog watching intently as he chewed.
    â€œOkay, one for you, too, boy,” he said, tossing the dog a roll.
    Rex caught it and ate it eagerly, tail wagging, while River examined the other containers. One held a stew, thick with gravy, vegetables and meat. Impossible to eat that, really, without utensils. The next dish he opened held cold fried chicken.
    â€œGod, Rex, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” He took out two pieces of the chicken and, forgetting his caution, sat right there on the porch to eat them. But before he got more than a bite off the second drumstick, his stomach was protesting. It had been too long. He just couldn’t hold food the way he would have liked to. Couldn’t do this meal justice.
    There were other dishes in the cooler, and bottles of water, as well. He didn’t go through them, just peeled the remaining meat off the chicken bone for Rex, then put the bone itself back into the container, because he didn’t want the dog eating that, and set the container back in the cooler. He helped himself to a bottle of water, and only as he took his first sip did it occur to him that he hadn’t had a drop of water since before leaving the hospital—aside from the icy pond water he’d swallowed last night.
    He drained the bottle, too thirsty, suddenly, to take it slow. And then his stomach convulsed and heaved. He ran off the porch, the dog at his heels, and only just made it into the thick brush across the road before he lost his lunch. The heaving left him weak and trembling, his stomach feeling far too queasy for him to even consider trying again to put food into it.
    Rex nudged his thigh, whined a little.
    He petted the dog’s neck and straightened. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll live. Maybe.” Lifting his head, he eyed the house. “You don’t suppose I could crawl under that porch with you, rest up for the day, do you?”
    The dog barked once, and then the two of them made their way back across the street. River paused long enough to go through the box of clothing. Men’s clothing, all of it. There were jeans and flannel shirts, T-shirts and button-down shirts, ties, several pairs of shoes, and best of all, sweaters. Four of them, thick and heavy and warm. And a denim coat with a fleece lining, and even a knit cap.
    â€œHeaven,” he said again. He took the jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, socks and the coat. He took only one pair of shoes, a pair of lined, waterproof boots that were more valuable to him right then than a million dollars would have been. He tried to arrange the remaining items—the dress shirts, ties, suit pants and jackets—in such a way that it wasn’t utterly obvious things were missing from the box. But it was pretty clear.
    He bundled up his treasures, and went, with the dog, to the open spot under the porch, then knelt and crawled in.
    And then he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. When they did, he realized that the woman who lived here was a pushover. There was a brand-new dog bed under the porch.
    But there was something else even better. Something he had known about, once, but forgotten long ago. There was a hole in the cinder block foundation, made for a casement window. But there was no window in the hole.
    He peeked through, into the house’s cellar. The furnace was running. The warmth of it touched his face.
    He closed his eyes, told himself this woman was too nice to be treated this way. She didn’t deserve to have a confessed murderer, much less an escapee from a mental hospital, hiding out in her basement.
    And yet he didn’t see that he had much of a choice in the matter.
    He tossed the clothes into the basement,