My Evil Stepmother, The Comedic Terror

Previously

…The diary, I now realized, wasn't just a record of her schemes; it was her confession, her justification, and perhaps, even her cry for help. The whispers in the walls were the echoes of her own staged reality, a reality she desperately wanted me to believe in. I clutched the script, the velvet diary heavy in my other hand. The truth, or at least a part of it, was finally within my grasp. But with that truth came a new, terrifying burden. I was no longer just a victim of her madness; I was an unwilling audience member, privy to the inner workings of her elaborate play. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that the final act was yet to come.