Confrontation at Night

Clara: RICHARD, NO! Put that gun down!

Richard: Stay where you are, Clara! You brought this on yourself by letting your kid poke around the furniture!

Mark: Put the gun down, Richard. You're losing your mind.

Richard: I spent ten years trying to locate Arthur's offshore accounts! Ten years! And you think I'm going to let an average middle-class guy like you walk away with my life work?

Mark: It was never your work. It was Arthur's money, meant for Clara and Lily!

Richard: Arthur was a fool who didn't know how to handle real wealth! Hand over that leather briefcase right now!

Mark slowly raised his hands, keeping his body positioned between Richard's gun and Clara. His fingers gripped the heavy steel sledgehammer resting against his leg.

Mark: You want the briefcase? It's right here on the floor. Take it.

Richard: Step back against the wall. Both of you!

Richard took a cautious step forward, lowering his eyes for a split second to look down at the papers spilling from the briefcase. In that exact fraction of a second, Mark lunged forward, swinging his arm up with all his strength.

Mark slammed his forearm directly into Richard's wrist. The revolver went off with a deafening bang, sending a bullet tearing into the ceiling plaster. Clara screamed, covering her ears as Richard stumbled backward against the door frame.

Mark: GET THE GUN, CLARA!

Mark tackled Richard to the ground, sending both of them crashing hard onto the hardwood floor. Papers and dust rained down around them as Richard frantically kicked and clawed at Mark's face.

Richard: Get off me, you idiot!

Mark: Clara, take Lily and get out of the house!

Clara dove across the floor, grabbing the fallen revolver by the grip. She scrambled to her feet, pointing the gun directly at her uncle as Mark pinned Richard's arms against the floor.

Clara: Don't move! DON'T YOU MOVE, RICHARD!

Richard: Clara... think about what you're doing! I'm your family! We can split the entire trust fund!

Clara: You pointed a gun at my husband in front of my daughter's room! You used us!

Mark: Call 911, Clara. Right now.

Downstairs, the sound of blaring police sirens cut through the quiet night air. Red and blue lights flashed brightly against the bedroom window shades.

Richard: What... who called the police?

Mark: I dialed emergency services on my phone the moment I stepped inside that passage. The call was open the entire time you were talking, Richard.