Rachel and Mercy quickly scanned their small ready room. In contrast to the main lobby, which was decked to the hilt with the finest amenities the producers could acquire, this room was small and plain. A few photos of Parker and Rene, posing with celebrities who had stood in that very chamber, were nicely distributed throughout the space. A small round table, a couple padded chairs, a tall makeup bench, an overstuffed sofa, and an armoire were the extent of the furniture provided.

“Not much to look at here,” Rachel commented with mild bewilderment.

“They must have spent all their decoration budget on the lobby,” Mercy observed dryly. Then, her uncertainty reasserting itself, she continued, “So . . . what do we do now?”

Having never been on a talk show—or a show of any kind for that matter—Mercy hadn’t known what to expect. Going by the glitz and glamour she’d seen on TV, she halfway expected the entire experience to be something of a red-carpet affair. But she kept reminding herself that, not being an actual celebrity, her treatment wasn’t likely to be celebratory either.

“It’s not too late. You can still back out of this if you want.”

Mercy’s color rose to her face. The latent passion burning in her soul dispelled every vestige of reticence.

“But it’s important, Mom! The truth—”

A sharp rap on the door interrupted her diatribe. Her last word hung in the air like a murdered thought.

Almost before the duo knew what was happening, Ralph burst in, toting a large basket of balloons and goodies. They were rather taken aback by his abrupt entrance, incredulous at his style, and confounded by his mutterings.

“Here you are, ladies—compliments of the house,” Ralph offered awkwardly, thrusting the large wicker vessel toward Rachel. “Uh, hopefully these won’t increase your dental bills at all.” Then realizing he might have been a bit offensive, he backpedaled. “Uh, not that you need any dental work, of course—”

Rachel interrupted the painful exchange. “It will be fine. Thank you.” She smiled graciously as she received the voluminous gift. 

Ralph nodded, bowed a little uncertainly, and exited without pomp or circumstance. 

Then to distract Mercy, Rachel offered, “Here, sweetheart, why don’t you check this out while I find out what we do next?” She handed the basket off to her daughter.

Mercy offered a halfhearted “Sure” and fiddled mindlessly with the basket’s contents. She carried it over to the table as her mother peeked out of the room.

A small pink bottle caught her eye. She lifted it from the pile of goodies. It looked like a perfume bottle and was covered with a black top-hat sort of cap. She turned it and caught a glint of the subtle logo on the front. 

Lucky You.

Suddenly, she was in another place at other time—

A new bottle of Lucky You rested on a teal and seafoam bathroom counter amid a smattering of other teen toiletries—toothpaste, a brush, mousse, and toner. Mercy had just burst in. The bathroom was a typical household bath for a typical middle-class home. Mostly white accented with teal and copper tones, it was as comfortable and relaxing as any ordinary bathroom.

But this was no ordinary situation. Blood was spattered everywhere. Towels stained crimson littered the floor. The tiles were slick with blood and water.

The tub held a panic-stricken girl.

“It won’t stop,” she cried weakly. “Help me!”

The conversation was interrupted by a knock—not uncommon, as it was a doctor’s residence. Rachel asked Mercy to get it. Still twirling a fork with a sizable bite of the pasta attached, she sauntered toward the door. She heaved it open then stood there surprised.

The sun was setting low in the distance, painting bright oranges and rich purples across the evening sky. It had darkened enough that the streetlamps came on, and the deep shadows below the trees were murky as midnight.

The figures before her were obscured by the dusk, but Mercy recognized them at once. “Mr. and Mrs. Matthews. How are you?”

Martin and Nancy Matthews were the parents of her good friend Bridget. They stood there, immense uncertainty weighing their expressions. Mercy reached out and gave Nancy a strong hug. Nancy could no longer hold back the tears that stood so close at hand. This undid Mercy, and the floodgates loosened. Martin battled to restrain his own.

“Mercy, are your parents home?”

Having heard a bit of what went on, Clayton and Rachel had come up behind Mercy. Clayton rested a comforting fatherly hand on Mercy’s shoulder.

“Nancy, Martin,” Rachel greeted them, “What can we do for you?”

Martin was in dead earnest. “Can we talk? We need to know what really happened.”