All That's Left of Light

Nebraska Avenue shimmered in the late-day Tampa heat. Asphalt bleeding tar. Dusk gathered like a bruise, light splintering across glass and water.

Lena kept her head down, one hand locked on her purse strap. She knew the street’s rhythm—the cough of mufflers, the language of horns. A slow honk meant curiosity. A double tap meant hurry. Anything drawn out was trouble.

A dark-blue pickup eased alongside, window half-down. The driver didn’t catcall. Didn’t bargain. Just watched, hands steady at ten and two.

For months, stories circled—bodies in overgrown lots, behind motels, near canals. Always near water. Always the same words on the news.

He circled the block, came back, idled a heartbeat longer, then drifted off—taillights bleeding red into motels and liquor stores.

Lena stopped at a donut shop window. The reflection showed a face too lined for innocence. Not blonde. Not twenty-something.

Inside, women in pink uniforms poured coffee for regulars. A young mother rocked a sleeping baby, his hand curled in her sleeve. Lena felt again the weight of her own boy the day she handed him to the social worker—”He’ll be safer with family, just until you get yourself together.” The man in the doorway had nodded. Clipboard, like that settled it. Sometimes she still woke to the ghost of those hands, clutching.

Across the street, two blonde girls worked their corner—Janelle in cutoffs, and a newer one in white heels too high for the cracked pavement.

The bus hissed to a stop. Lena didn’t get on. Instead, she started walking again.

A maroon sedan rolled beside her, window easing down.

She knew that sound—the low hum, the soft brakes.

“Hey,” he said. “You eaten?” His voice was soft, like someone afraid to spook her.

She shook her head, kept walking.

“I could get you something,” he said. “Doesn’t have to be—” He hesitated. “Doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

Lena laughed under her breath. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

She didn’t answer. His voice could make you forget what men were capable of.

“You’ll change your mind,” he said finally. He gave a soft, sorry smile.

He was always offering to do her laundry, bring her clean socks. Once he’d offered to paint her toenails. She and the girls called him Toenail after that.

“Hold up,” Lena called to the next corner. “Janelle! You hungry?”

Janelle crossed the street, cigarette in hand, laughing when she saw the car. She leaned into the window, grinning. “Hey, sugar. You buyin’ dinner for both of us, or just her?”

Toenail hesitated. The smile faltered. His hand twitched toward the gearshift.

Before he could answer, headlights swept the curb. A dark sedan nosed in—unmarked.

“Shit,” Janelle muttered.

Two doors opened. A woman and a man stepped out—plainclothes, badges glinting in the heat. The woman moved first. Mid-thirties, brown hair pulled tight, eyes hidden behind mirrored aviators.

“Evening, ladies,” she said. Her voice was calm, clipped.

Lena’s stomach dropped. “Officer Alvarez,” she said, dragging the title like an insult. “Out for a stroll?”

Toenail melted backward, tires whispering. By the time Alvarez turned her head, the maroon sedan had already merged with the traffic and disappeared.

The male detective—tall, sunburned—shifted beside her. “You hear about the body found off Causeway?” he said. “Might wanna call it an early night.”

Janelle snorted.

Alvarez ignored it. She turned back to Lena. “You were supposed to be in class this morning.”

Lena looked past her, toward the horizon bleeding into dusk. “You keep tabs on people’s schedule now?”

Alvarez spoke matter-of-factly. “He just told you we pulled another girl out of the mangroves.”

Janelle blew out smoke, eyes narrowed.

Alvarez continued. “We’re saying stay off the street. Both of you,” Her gaze cut back to Lena. “And you—you show up. Pass the test. Don’t give them a reason to pull your file again.” Alvarez glanced at her partner. “We’re done here.”

They started back toward the car.

When they were out of earshot, Janelle stubbed out her cigarette and asked, “You know her?”

Lena shrugged.

“Well, I’m heading back to Jacksonville tomorrow. My cousin’s got a couch. You should come.”

“Jacksonville? Can’t,” Lena said, and left it there.

Janelle shook her head, flicked the cigarette into the street. “Suit yourself.” She started walking, heels clacking in rhythm with the hum of traffic.

Lena watched her go until she was a shimmer at the edge of the block, swallowed by the heat. She headed for the bus stop, her reflection breaking and reforming in dark windows.

At the corner, a newspaper box screamed: ANOTHER WOMAN FOUND NEAR CAUSEWAY. She stared until the letters blurred.

By the time she reached the bus stop, she’d made up her mind. If she couldn’t be good, she could at least be better.

***

Streetlamps came on, halos of dull orange bleeding through the heat. The last of the sun had drained from the sky, leaving a smear of violet over the warehouses.

Officer Alvarez returned from the car, another stack of flyers under her arm.

MISSING: the top one read. Female. Approx. 20–25. Last seen near Kennedy Boulevard.

At each stop, she left copies and moved on. Vega trailed her.

At the end of the block, she ducked into a laundromat. The hum of dryers filled the space, the air heavy with heat and detergent. A woman with pink curlers folded towels into a basket. Alvarez tacked a flyer onto the corkboard by the door. Someone had written in black marker above the faded ads for babysitting and cheap rides to Orlando: STAY SAFE, SISTERS.

Back outside, Vega leaned on the hood of the car, flipping through a folder of missing-person reports. “Two possibles,” he said. “One out of Clearwater, one from right here in Tampa. Both blond, both in their twenties. Autopsy’ll tell us more once tox comes in.”

Alvarez took the papers from him, scanning the photos. The faces had already blurred from too many copies; in one, the woman smiled shyly, a child’s hand gripping her shoulder.

“Send both to the M.E.,” she said.

“Done.” Vega tucked the file under his arm.

Alvarez dropped into the passenger seat, squinting through the windshield. She closed the folder as Vega eased into traffic. Her reflection wavered in the side mirror—eyes lined from too many night shifts. She pressed her thumb to the bridge of her nose. “I need to stop at Walgreens.”

Vega glanced over. “What for?”

“School supplies.”

He laughed. “You enrolling too?”

Alvarez didn’t answer. She flipped open the glove compartment, looking for something to keep her hands busy. “He’s got a field trip this week.”

The radio crackled. “Unit 4A, possible 10-54 behind the auto shop off 19th. Caller reports a smell, maybe wildlife. Patrol’s en route, but you’re closest.”

Vega sighed. “There goes your drug store run.”

Alvarez grabbed the mic. “Copy that.”

They turned onto a service road— warehouses and chain-link. The single cruiser ahead of them pulsed red and blue against aluminum siding.

They ducked under the tape. The body was behind the fence, half-hidden under palmetto fronds and trash bags. Female. Early twenties. Blond, the roots dark with sweat and dirt.

One arm bent under the torso, nails broken. A motel sheet bound her throat.

Vega sighed. “Jesus.”

Alvarez crouched. The ground was wet—runoff from the nearby carwash seeping into the dirt, pooling toward the bay.

Vega pointed at the tire tracks. “Dumped from a vehicle. Probably last night.”

Alvarez nodded and walked back toward the car.

Vega called after her, “You still want that Walgreens stop?”

She didn’t look back.

***

The next night came quick, the way it does in Florida—one minute gold, the next, gone. Streetlights blinked awake, humming in the thick air. The rain had come and gone hours ago, leaving the sidewalks damp and shining. Nebraska Avenue pulsed to life again.

Lena’s heels clicked against the concrete. Her dark hair was still damp from the shower she’d taken at the motel, her makeup redone in the cracked mirror by the door.

“Yo, Lena!” A voice cut through the hum of traffic. It was Janelle, leaning against the 7-Eleven wall, cigarette glowing between her fingers. The new girl with the white heels—Daisy—was beside her, tugging at her skirt.

Janelle jerked her chin toward a dark blue pickup that had just turned onto the street. “Look who’s back.”

The dark blue truck slowed, headlights sweeping across their faces. The driver rolled down his window and grinned, gap-toothed, half his face hidden under a ball cap. “Evenin’, ladies.”

Lena’s pulse ticked faster.

Janelle muttered, “Creep.” She flicked ash toward the curb. “Daisy told the cops. They’re watchin’ for his truck now.”

The pickup lingered another beat, then rolled on, exhaust hanging in the air.

The maroon sedan slid past, quiet, steady. The driver didn’t honk. Just slowed enough for her to see his face in the window, and then he was gone.

“Gonna head down to that new club,” Janelle said, grinding her cigarette under her heel. “Heard some big bachelor party’s there.”

Lena nodded and walked alongside. They turned toward Kennedy Boulevard. The air smelled of rain and fryer grease, sharp with gas.

They passed the pawnshop, the neon cross blinking over the payday loan place, and the corner where a preacher sometimes stood shouting scripture at no one. At the end of the block, Angel Girls burned like a beacon—neon purple and pink, pulsing against the night sky.

Lena stopped across the street, arms folded, pretending she was waiting for the bus. She’d heard the stories. The girls inside didn’t have to walk the street. They had lockers, clean bathrooms, a DJ calling their names. Men still looked, still touched, but it was safer inside.

She smoothed her skirt, checked her reflection in a dark car window, and crossed.

The doorman leaned against the frame, a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a gold chain catching the neon. “Dancers only,” he said without looking up.

“I’m here to audition,” Lena said.

He finally looked at her, then past her as Janelle stepped forward. “Her too,” Janelle said, smiling, voice sugar-sweet.

The man’s expression softened at Janelle. “You’re up?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He swung the door open just wide enough for her. “Go on in.”

Lena started to follow, but his arm came up, blocking her chest. “Not you.”

“She’s with me,” Janelle said, half-turning.

The doorman’s eyes swept over Lena’s hair, her skin, her dirty shoes. The warmth in his face vanished. “She’s not on the list.”

“I can dance,” Lena said, voice tight.

“Not tonight.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten. Just pushed her—one flat hand to the shoulder, hard enough to send her stumbling down the steps. Her knees hit concrete.

“Off the property,” he said, bored. “Skank.”

The door shut behind him, bass thudding through the walls.

People passed without stopping. The city kept moving like she wasn’t even there.

Lena stayed on the curb for a long moment, breathing shallow. Blood slid down her shin. She wiped it away and stood. She didn’t look back.

Half a block down, behind a dumpster, she heard it—a thin whimper, high and broken. She froze. Listened. There it was again.

She knelt. The brown puppy was so small it barely looked alive, ribs sharp under matted fur. When she reached out, it pressed its face into her hand, trembling.

“Hey there,” she whispered.

The puppy licked her fingers, tail fluttering like a dying moth.

Something shifted in her chest, small and fragile and alive. She looked up the block, toward the strip of light spilling from Angel’s, and for the first time in a long while, she smiled.

“Come on, baby,” she said softly. “Let’s get you something to drink.”

She’d found a half-empty water bottle by the alley fence and let it drink from her hand. It lapped greedily, tail twitching. The puppy looked up, tongue flicking, eyes too big for its face.

Headlights washed over the alley mouth. A car idled, then rolled closer—maroon.

The passenger window lowered. “You okay?”

She almost laughed. “Define okay.”

“It’s you,” he said softly. “I thought that was you.”

Toenail’s hands were on the wheel like he didn’t want to scare her. “That your dog?”

“Found him,” she said. “Behind the trash.”

He looked at the puppy, at its thin coat and trembling legs. “He needs a vet. There’s a 24-hour vet off Armenia,” he said, already Googling. “They’ll scan for a chip. I’ll cover it.”

The puppy coughed, a small wheeze, and her heart clenched. “They’ll charge a fortune,” she muttered and looked down the alley, at the empty street, at the neon sign buzzing over the closed laundromat. The puppy whimpered once more.

She stood, holding it close. “Okay,” she said finally. “Just the vet.”

He smiled and reached across to open the door. Cold air spilled out, the smell of coffee and something clean.

The puppy squirmed against her chin. “You hear that?” she whispered. “We’re gonna get you fixed up.”

She climbed in. The door closed with a muted thud.

The sedan pulled away, tail lights bleeding red into the wet street.

***

The precinct was nearly empty. Fluorescents hummed, washing the squad room gray.

Alvarez was halfway through typing her field notes when Lieutenant Grayson’s shadow crossed her desk.

“Stay on Nebraska,” he said, dropping a folder. “Another body this morning.”

Her stomach sank.

“I want you on the footage I just sent from last night.”

Alvarez nodded.

The grainy CCTV feed jumped, blurred, steadied. A maroon sedan idled beside the dumpster behind a closed laundromat. The passenger door opened. A woman climbed in, cradling something small.

She hit rewind. Froze the frame. Zoomed. The outline of a puppy, no bigger than a loaf of bread, pressed against the woman’s chest.

“Oh, Lena,” she whispered. The next frame flickered: the door closing, the car pulling away, taillights bleeding red. Gone.

Next file. Same alley, two hours later. The maroon sedan idled with its lights off, a late-night animal holding its breath.

The man stepped out alone. He looked both ways. No hurry. He lifted the dumpster lid with one hand. With the other, he lowered a small bundle inside. When he straightened, the man wiped his fingers on a napkin, folded the square in half, then in half again—a neat, practiced thing—and slid it into his pocket.

Alvarez pressed her palm against her mouth until the bones in her face hurt.

Her partner, Vega, shouldered the door open. “Plates came back,” he said. “Blue Toyota. Registered to a Samuel Denton. Thirty-eight. Works dispatch out by the port. Clean record except for a busted tail light he fixed the same week we started talking blue trucks.”

Alvarez didn’t answer. She rewound five seconds. Play. The folded napkin. The small, ordinary tenderness of it, turned to harm.

Vega continued. “Also. Tox report’s in,” he said, setting a folder beside her. “Fentanyl, high dose. Matches the others.” He looked at the screen. “Who’s that?”

She nodded toward the screen. “It’s him,” she said.

“Thought we liked the pickup guy,” he said, almost to himself. “Everyone swore—”

“Everyone’s wrong sometimes.”

Alvarez hit play. On the screen, the man closed the door and the car eased out of frame, as gentle leaving as arriving. The empty alley stared back, a rectangle of nothing.

***

Her drive to the causeway was silent. The city thinned to mangroves and salt flats. Patrol lights flashed faintly in the distance where they’d cordoned off the site earlier.

Alvarez parked beyond them and stepped out. Behind the wooden fence, crime scene techs murmured, cameras still clicking, but she didn’t follow.

She couldn’t.

She walked, head down. Not because of the mud, but because if she looked at anyone—any of them—she might break.

The brush crackled under her boots as she circled the body. Morning light slanted in through the mangroves, picking out the curve of Lena’s bare hip, the pale of her shoulder already filmed with flies.

The crime-scene tape ticked in the light breeze.

They found her half-turned toward the water like she’d been trying to crawl there. A strip of motel linen cinched her throat. Someone had dragged her through sawgrass; the stalks lay flattened like a part in hair.

Then, from the dumpster, a whimper—a sound too fragile for a place like this. Alvarez’s head snapped toward it. She moved before she could think, boots sinking into the wet sand as she reached the lid.

A flash of movement shrank into shadow—brown matted fur, ribs like fingers under a shirt.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice surprised her, the way it gentled. “Come on.”

The animal wouldn’t come. It trembled in the corner, eyes gone silver with fear. She balanced on the lip, reaching slow. Her fingers brushed a warm ear; the puppy flinched, then yielded, the way the small and helpless do when they run out of places to go.

A uniform snorted. “You still taking strays, Alvarez?”

“Looks like,” she said. She wrapped the puppy in a towel from the trunk. It breathed fast against her wrist, a heartbeat and a half.

Alvarez carried him to the edge of the water. Each step sank into the sand. The bay moved the way it always did—taking what it could, giving back what it wanted.

Her phone buzzed. Luz, Sitter. She thumbed a reply with one knuckle: Home soon. PB&J is fine.

The tide was coming in again, slow and sure, filling the same ruts her colleague’s shoes had made that morning. She pulled the permission slip from her pocket. The bottom line was still unsigned.

Luca Alvarez. Grade 2. Lowry Park Zoo.

She folded it once, twice, then again, smaller each time, until it fit inside her fist.

The wind shifted, carrying salt and the faint, sweet rot of mangroves.

She held the puppy close, the two of them small and breathing, while they watched the tide erase the last of the footprints.