Part 7: Walter’s Notebook
📍 March 8th, 2022 – 7:42 AM | Bishop Residence, Mill Hollow, Virginia
The house creaked with memory that morning.
Carolyn poured black coffee into Walter’s old thermos — the one with a dent near the base and a faded “Trucker’s Prayer” sticker.
She hadn’t touched it since 2017. But something about the warehouse Sheriff Rourke mentioned… Stonepath Recovery… tugged at a thread she thought had long gone quiet.
📍 8:10 AM – Upstairs closet
The notebook was where she’d left it: second shelf, inside Walter’s green duffle bag.
It smelled of dust and motor oil.
She flipped through page after page of hand-scrawled routes, fuel logs, and side notes Walter used to jot down when he didn’t trust his memory.
On a page dated March 12, 2016, her fingers froze.
“Drop-off near Big Stone Gap – warehouse called STONEPATH, but no signage. Men with dogs in crates. Paid cash for gravel. Barking inside. Didn’t sit right.”
And beneath that, in red ink:
“Name on clipboard: J. Hadley.”
Carolyn sank into the chair.
Walter had seen it.
Years before Max vanished.
But he hadn’t told her. Or maybe he tried — and grief had buried the warning.
She flipped the page.
Tucked between the next two sheets was a receipt — faded but intact.
From a nearby diner. Dated the same day.
“Server: Ellie | Order: black coffee, toast, liver & onions.”
A time and place. A witness.
📍 12:31 PM – Sheriff’s Office, Miller’s Cross
Carolyn placed the notebook gently on Sheriff Rourke’s desk.
“He saw the place. My husband. He wrote it all down.”
Rourke skimmed the entry. Eyes narrowed.
“We’ve never had anything stick to Hadley. This—” she tapped the receipt “—might be enough to get eyes inside.”
She paused.
“Carolyn… you sure you want to stay involved in this?”
“I’m not just doing it for Max,” Carolyn said quietly.
“I’m doing it for the dogs who didn’t make it home.”
📍 2:03 PM – Redwater Veterinary Group, Kentucky
Back in Redwater, Dr. Elsie Monroe had news.
“The lab extracted part of Max’s chip serial. Not enough for owner registration — but enough to confirm manufacturing batch.”
Carolyn leaned forward.
“And?”
“That chip was only distributed to shelters under a USDA grant — including one that closed in 2019 for… let’s say, ethical concerns.”
She handed Carolyn a printed report.
At the bottom, in black-and-white:
JRH Transport LLC – Contract Terminated / Under Review
📍 4:17 PM – Carolyn’s front porch
Max was resting in the sun. The bandage was off now. His fur, where shaved, revealed the smooth scar beneath — quiet, healed, but undeniable.
Carolyn pulled out her notebook.
She wrote:
Day 6.
Walter saw the place.
Max survived it.
The system didn’t stop it.
But maybe… we still can.
📍 5:36 PM – Visitor at the gate
Just as the sun was setting behind the hills, a truck pulled up at the end of Carolyn’s drive.
A young woman stepped out. Faded jeans, denim jacket, shelter ID clipped to her collar.
“Mrs. Bishop? My name’s Ellie Carson. I work at the Redwater Rescue. You left a message?”
Carolyn blinked.
“Wait… Ellie? Were you working at a diner near Big Stone Gap in 2016?”
The woman looked startled.
“Yeah. My folks owned it before it shut down in COVID.”
Carolyn held up the receipt.
Ellie’s eyes widened.
“I remember him. The old man with the big arms and the dog in the truck. He left early. Didn’t even eat. Said the warehouse made him sick.”
Carolyn’s voice caught.
“That was my husband.”
Ellie stepped closer.
“Mrs. Bishop… that warehouse isn’t abandoned anymore. Last week, someone started bringing in crates again.”