The oppressive atmosphere in the theater corridor was chilling.

Simon Howe stood rooted to the spot, disbelief written all over his face as he heard me repeat those words.

"You really read the diary?"

I nodded, and at that moment, he seemed to lose his composure, his voice hoarse and trembling. "Let me explain."

"Explain what?" I forced a bitter smile and continued, "Simon Howe, are you going to tell me that the diary wasn't written by you?"

Back in school, Simon Howe didn’t care much about studying, and I often did his homework for him. No one knew his handwriting better than I did.

He seemed to realize this...