Part 5: The Van in the Rearview
📍 March 6th, 2022 – 5:12 AM | On the road to Tennessee
The Ford’s old heater sputtered again as Carolyn turned onto Route 58.
Max lay in the backseat this time — wrapped in the green blanket, a pillow beneath his hips, and a thin collar loosely fitted just for comfort. He didn’t sleep. Not really. Just watched. Eyes half-lidded, but alert.
Carolyn glanced at him in the mirror every few minutes.
Still breathing.
Still here.
The address she had scribbled in her notebook came from the remnants of that blog post — a PO box once linked to “E.R. Hadley” in Miller’s Cross, Tennessee. No GPS listing, no phone number, but someone had tagged the location in a Facebook comment back in 2020:
“Don’t trust JR Hadley or that fake rehab kennel out on Pine Hollow Road.”
She typed the road name into her phone. It wasn’t on the map.
But she’d driven into grief once before and come out the other side. She could do it again.
📍 10:38 AM – State border, Tennessee
The morning sun cut through the mist just long enough to light up the road ahead.
Carolyn pulled into a gas station, filled up the tank, and picked up a newspaper on impulse.
Inside was a small article:
“Local Man Wanted for Questioning in Missing Animal Transport Case.”
No photo. Just a name:
Jerome R. Hadley.
Her coffee turned bitter in her mouth.
📍 11:02 AM – Back on the road
She was five miles from Miller’s Cross when she noticed the white van in her rearview mirror.
Boxy. No windows.
It hadn’t been there when she pulled out. Now it stuck behind her like a burr.
She changed lanes. It followed.
Slowed. So did it.
Her hands tensed on the wheel.
“Not today,” she whispered.
She turned off suddenly onto a gravel farm road and killed the lights.
The van kept going.
She didn’t move for a full minute. Max shifted in the back, low whine in his throat.
Carolyn reached over and laid her hand on his chest.
“We’re alright. I got you now.”
📍 1:14 PM – Pine Hollow Road, outskirts of Miller’s Cross
The road turned from asphalt to cracked pavement to red clay.
It ended in front of a rusted gate with a hand-painted sign:
Pine Hollow Working Dogs — No Trespassing
She parked outside. No other vehicles in sight.
Just the wind.
And beyond the gate — a long shed-like building, half-collapsed, overgrown with vines. No movement. No barking.
Carolyn took Max’s photo from the glovebox and stepped out.
She didn’t get far.
“You lost, lady?”
A man stood at the edge of the trees.
Middle-aged. Gaunt face. One hand in his jacket.
“This place ain’t open. Go on now.”
Carolyn held up the photo.
“You know this dog?”
He didn’t even look.
“Never seen him. Now go.”
📍 2:31 PM – Local sheriff’s office, Miller’s Cross
Carolyn sat in the station lobby, photo in one hand, her worn notebook in the other.
The sheriff — a tall woman named Denise Rourke — was polite but tight-lipped.
“Ma’am, I know the Hadley name. JR ran dogs outta here for years — claimed it was rescue and training. USDA finally shut him down. But he’s slippery. Has folks who still owe him favors.”
Carolyn laid the photo on the desk.
“He took my dog. Took him years ago and dumped him when he was no use.”
Sheriff Rourke studied Max’s photo. Her expression softened.
“That scar… We had other dogs come in with marks like that. Quiet ones. Ones that stopped barking altogether.”
She slid the photo back across the table.
“We’ll look. But don’t go back out there. Not alone. Hadley’s people don’t care for questions.”
📍 5:45 PM – Motel parking lot, back in Virginia
Carolyn parked and checked Max. He hadn’t moved much.
She set up his food, pain meds, and a shallow bowl of water. He drank slowly, tail thumping once.
It was the first time he’d wagged since coming home.
Then — as she leaned in to adjust the blanket — something fell from his fur.
A small tag.
Oval. Flattened. Dirty.
On the back, barely visible:
“Unit 27 – JRH Transport.”
Her hands shook as she picked it up.
That man had lied.
He did know Max.
And Max — somehow — had brought the truth back with him.