Too Late For Regret: The Lethal Orphan

Amara Salinas sat on the edge of the attic windowsill with her left leg dangling in the humid night air. Her eyes tracked the two security guards patrolling the manicured lawns of the Valentine estate.

Her brain automatically mapped out three distinct tactical routes. She could drop to the oak tree branch below, bypass the camera blind spots, and clear the perimeter wall in exactly nine point four seconds without making a single sound.

A faint creak of floorboards echoed from the hallway.

Amara instantly pulled her gaze from the window. Her spine straightened. The muscles in her thighs and shoulders locked into a defensive coil.

The brass doorknob turned. Cloris Tierney, the estate housekeeper, pushed the door open. Her knuckles were white as she gripped a clear plastic garment bag.

Amara let out a slow breath. Her shoulders dropped. She slid off the windowsill, her sneakers hitting the wooden floor in absolute silence.

Cloris walked over to the narrow cot that served as Amara's bed. She unzipped the garment bag and pulled out a simple, blue cotton dress. The store tags were still hanging from the collar.

"Happy seventeenth birthday, Amara," Cloris whispered. She held out the dress. "I bought it with my wages. I wanted you to have something new."

Amara stared at the cheap fabric. A strange flutter hit the back of her ribs, disrupting her usual cold baseline.

She reached out and took the dress. The cotton was rough against her calloused fingertips. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a breath.

The sharp, rapid clicking of stiletto heels pierced the quiet. The sound marched straight down the hall toward the attic.

Brandie Valentine kicked the half-open door. It slammed against the wall. Brandie stood in the doorway, clutching a massive pile of wrinkled, heavy fabric to her chest.

Brandie's eyes darted to the blue cotton dress in Amara's hands. Her lips twisted into a hard sneer.

She marched forward and threw the pile of clothes directly onto Amara's bed. It was a heap of outdated, worn-out haute couture gowns.

"Wear these hand-me-downs to the family dinner tonight," Brandie ordered. "Try to look like you belong in this house for once."

Cloris stepped forward, her hands trembling. "Miss Brandie, it is Amara's birthday today. She was going to wear this new dress."

Brandie snapped her head toward the housekeeper. "Shut your mouth. I will have my father fire you right now if you speak to me again."

Amara took a half-step forward. She slid perfectly into the blind spot between Brandie and Cloris.

She reached out with two fingers and pinched the fabric of the most expensive gown on the bed. She looked at it the way a surgeon looks at medical waste.

Brandie crossed her arms over her chest, a smug smile forming on her face. She waited for the compliance she always expected from the trailer trash her parents took in.

Amara flicked her wrist. The heavy couture gown sailed through the air and landed perfectly inside the plastic trash can in the corner of the room.

Brandie froze. It took two full seconds for her brain to process the action. The blood rushed to her face, turning her cheeks a violent shade of red. She let out a high-pitched shriek.

Brandie raised her right hand high. The air hissed as she swung her palm straight toward Amara's cheek.

Amara did not blink. Her left hand shot out. She caught Brandie's wrist in mid-air. The impact made a dull slapping sound.

Amara shifted her grip. She pressed her thumb directly into the ulnar nerve cluster on the inside of Brandie's wrist. She applied three pounds of pressure.

Brandie let out a blood-curdling scream. Her knees buckled instantly. She collapsed, her kneecaps hitting the floorboards hard.

Amara stood over her. She reached into her pocket with her free hand, pulled out a lollipop, and popped it into her mouth. Her teeth clamped down. The hard candy shattered with a loud crack.

"Do not mistake my silence for weakness," Amara said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any human inflection.

She released her grip. Brandie lost her balance and fell backward onto her hands. She scrambled away, clutching her numb wrist against her chest, her whole body shaking.

"You are going to pay for this!" Brandie choked out, tears spilling down her red face. She scrambled to her feet and ran out the door.

Amara turned her head to look at the terrified housekeeper. She picked up the blue cotton dress, held it against her torso, and forced the corners of her mouth up into a stiff, reassuring curve.

Amara smoothed the skirt of the blue cotton dress as she walked out of the attic and down the long second-floor hallway.

She reached the top of the grand staircase. A sharp, chemical odor hit the back of her throat. It was the distinct smell of industrial glue mixed with cheap acrylic paint.

Amara stopped walking. Her eyes scanned the massive crystal chandelier hanging directly above the staircase.

A red plastic bucket was wedged dangerously close to the chandelier's load-bearing chain.

Her gaze traced downward. A nearly invisible, transparent fishing line ran from the lip of the bucket all the way down to the seventh step of the stairs, disappearing under the edge of the expensive Persian runner.

Amara shifted her eyes to the shadows of the staircase landing. She saw the toe of a designer sneaker and a sliver of blonde hair. Brandie and her younger brother, Preston, were hiding there.

A cold smirk touched Amara's lips. She lifted her foot and stepped onto the first stair.

She made her footsteps deliberately heavy. One. Two. Three. She planted her foot squarely on the sixth step.

Down on the landing, Preston leaned half his body out of the shadows, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Amara shifted her weight. Instead of stepping on the seventh stair, she slid the toe of her sneaker under the edge of the Persian runner and kicked upward.

The taut fishing line snapped. The sound was a sharp ping in the quiet foyer.

The red bucket tipped over. A thick waterfall of red paint and industrial glue plummeted from the ceiling.

Amara threw her upper body backward at an impossible angle. Her left hand clamped onto the mahogany handrail to anchor herself. The red liquid missed her face by less than an inch.

The paint did not hit the stairs. The momentum of Amara pulling the rug sent the heavy liquid flying forward in a wide arc. It splashed directly onto Preston and Brandie.

Preston took a face full of red glue. He screamed, his hands flying to his eyes. His sneakers slipped on the wet marble. He tumbled backward down the remaining stairs.

Brandie reached out to grab his shirt. Her hands stuck to the glue on his collar. His weight pulled her forward, and she went down with him.

They rolled down the wooden steps like a tangled ball of limbs, hitting the bottom floor with a heavy, sickening thud.

Amara stood perfectly still on the sixth step. She looked down at the mess. Not a single drop of paint had touched her blue dress.

The heavy double doors of the main sitting room flew open. Sterling and Deidra Valentine rushed out.

Deidra saw her two children writhing on the floor, covered in thick red liquid. She let out a shrieking wail that echoed off the high ceilings.

Sterling's face turned a deep, mottled purple. He snapped his head up and glared at Amara standing calmly on the stairs.

Brandie lifted her head from her mother's lap. She pointed a sticky, red finger up at the stairs. "She pushed us! Amara pushed us down the stairs!"

Preston clutched his twisted ankle and wailed louder. "She's a psycho! She tried to kill us!"

Deidra jumped up and ran to the bottom of the stairs. She pointed her finger right at Amara's face. "You ungrateful piece of trash! We took you out of the gutter and this is how you repay us!"

Amara did not open her mouth. She looked at the two adults. The last microscopic trace of hope she had for this family evaporated from her chest.

Sterling stomped up the stairs. He raised his large hand, aiming a backhand strike right at Amara's jaw.

Amara tilted her head two inches to the left. Sterling's hand missed her face and slammed hard into the solid mahogany handrail. He grunted, his face contorting in pain.

"There is a security camera right above the front door," Amara said. Her voice was ice.

Sterling froze. He looked over his shoulder at the small black dome mounted on the wall. The color drained from his face as his brain calculated the scandal of a police investigation.

He lowered his throbbing hand. "Get to my study," he barked. "Wait there until I decide what to do with you."

Amara walked down the hall and pushed open the heavy oak door of the study. It was a room built to intimidate.

She ignored the plush leather sofas. She walked straight to the massive desk, pulled out the high-backed chair, and sat down.

Ten minutes later, Sterling threw the door open. His tie was pulled loose. The disgust on his face was raw and unfiltered.

He marched to the desk and slammed a piece of paper down in front of her. "Preston has a mild concussion. This is the medical bill."

Sterling stood over her, his chest heaving, but he forced his voice into a chillingly calm, hypocritical register. "Amara, we are profoundly disappointed in you. We took you in, and this is how you behave? You are becoming a liability. A dangerous, uncontrollable liability to this family's reputation."

He leaned heavily on the desk, his eyes narrowing into a faux-paternal glare. "For your own good, we have contacted a highly disciplined boarding school in Nevada. They specialize in troubled youth. We hope you will finally learn some respect and boundaries there."

Amara reached into the pocket of her blue dress. She pulled out a fresh lollipop, unwrapped it, and placed it in her mouth. She leaned back in the chair.

Sterling's face turned purple again, his carefully constructed facade of a concerned patriarch instantly shattering into raw rage. "Do you think this is a joke? They will break you in that place!"

Amara pulled the plastic stick out of her mouth. She reached into her canvas backpack on the floor and pulled out a thick manila envelope, one of the countless contingency plans-Plan B-prepared in advance by Holloway to ensure a clean extraction if her civilian cover was ever compromised.

She dumped the contents onto the oak desk and pushed the stack of papers toward him.

Sterling glanced down. His eyes locked on the bold black text at the top of the pages. Declaration of Emancipation. Severance of Familial Ties Agreement.

"Sign them," Amara said. "You sign these, and I walk out the front door. You will never see me again."

Sterling stared at her. He looked at the seventeen-year-old girl sitting in his chair, trying to find the bluff in her eyes. There was none.

Amara reached out and flipped to the last page. She tapped her finger on the signature line. "I already signed it. I am waiving the hundred-thousand-dollar severance fee you are legally required to offer. It costs you nothing to get rid of me."

Sterling's businessman instincts kicked in. His pulse slowed. A violent, emotionless daughter was bad for his company's stock prices.

Deidra burst into the study. She saw the papers on the desk. "Sign it, Sterling! Before she changes her mind! Get this monster out of our house!"

Sterling pulled a gold fountain pen from his jacket pocket. He pressed the nib to the paper and signed his name on both documents.

The second the ink dried, a heavy, invisible weight lifted off Amara's chest. Her breathing deepened.

She picked up her copy of the agreement, folded it, and shoved it into her backpack. She stood up and slung the bag over her shoulder.

Sterling watched her move with absolute efficiency. A sudden, cold knot of panic formed in his stomach. He ignored it.

"You will be eating out of dumpsters in a week," Sterling sneered.

Amara walked to the door. She stopped, her hand on the brass knob. "I hope you never live to regret what you did today."

She opened the door and walked down the stairs. She did not look at Brandie, who was hiding behind the living room sofa, smiling.

Amara pushed open the heavy front doors. A torrential downpour was hammering the estate.

Cloris ran out onto the porch holding a large black umbrella. Her eyes were red. She tried to shove a wad of cash into Amara's hand.

Amara pushed the money away. She took the umbrella. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around the housekeeper for two seconds.

Amara opened the black umbrella and stepped into the rain. The heavy doors slammed shut behind her.

She walked down the long driveway. The rain pounded against the nylon fabric of the umbrella.

At the end of the driveway, a massive, armored black SUV sat idling in the storm, waiting for her.