Marissa Whitaker, a 45-year-old holistic healer, sat in her vibrant Willow Creek, Oregon, apartment. Her bohemian space overflowed with colorful tapestries, glowing crystals, and the scent of sage. A steaming mug of coffee warmed her hands as she savored the morning quiet. The sudden chime of the doorbell shattered her peace. A sheriff’s deputy stood outside, his badge catching the early light.

The officer’s voice was firm, cutting through the calm. Marissa’s heart skipped as he addressed her by her legal name. She stood tall, her long black hair swaying, a bright headscarf framing her face. Her gemstone earrings glinted, matching her bold, eclectic style.

— Mary Susan Walters?
— Marissa Lynn Whitaker, please, she replied with a proud lift of her chin.
— We know your alias, ma’am, the deputy said, unamused.
— No games today, he added sternly.

Marissa’s appearance was a statement: flowing patterned dress, vibrant makeup, and an air of mysticism. She crossed her arms, her bangles jingling softly. The deputy’s serious demeanor clashed with her free-spirited energy. She wasn’t about to back down easily.

— I’m just living my truth, Marissa said, her voice steady.
— An alias isn’t a “truth,” the officer countered.
— Let’s keep this simple, he said, stepping inside.
— I don’t do simple, Marissa quipped, smirking.

Sheriff’s Deputy Mark Larson entered, clipboard in hand. His no-nonsense attitude filled the room with tension. The lavender-scented air seemed to mock his stern presence. Marissa gestured toward a plush velvet couch, trying to lighten the mood.

— Coffee, Deputy? Marissa offered, holding up her mug.
— No thanks, Larson said, his tone clipped.
— Let’s stick to business, he added, adjusting his hat.
— Your call, Marissa shrugged, sipping her drink.

Larson’s eyes scanned the eclectic decor, unimpressed. He pulled out a notepad, ready to get answers. Marissa leaned back, her curiosity tinged with caution. The situation felt heavier by the second.

— You’re under investigation, Ms. Walters, Larson said.
— Practicing medicine without a license, he clarified.
— Medicine? I use herbs and prayers, Marissa scoffed.
— That’s not illegal, is it? she challenged.

Marissa’s laughter rang out, sharp and defiant. Larson’s expression didn’t budge, his pen poised over his notepad. The accusation hung like a storm cloud. She set her coffee down, her mind racing.

— Yesterday, Ellen Nichols visited you, Larson said.
— She had kidney issues, correct? he pressed.
— People come to me all the time, Marissa replied, twirling her hair.
— I don’t check IDs, just ask first names, she added.

Larson raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. Marissa’s casual attitude wasn’t helping her case. The deputy leaned forward, his voice low. She braced herself for what was coming.

— You don’t even ask for names? Larson asked.
— First names, sure, Marissa said, unfazed.
— Gotta know who I’m praying for, she explained.
— Praying to who, exactly? he probed.

Marissa’s green eyes sparkled with defiance. She leaned closer, her bangles clinking softly. Her voice carried a mystic edge, almost theatrical. The room felt charged with her energy.

— The universe, Deputy, she said dramatically.
— No name, no connection, Marissa said.
— Sounds like you lost that connection with Ellen, Larson said.
— Her prayers didn’t work, he added pointedly.

Marissa’s smile faded, her confidence shaken. Larson’s words hit like a cold splash of water. She straightened, her voice firm but defensive. The tension was palpable now.

— What happened to Ellen? Marissa demanded.
— She collapsed after your session, Larson said.
— Severe kidney pain, then unconscious, he continued.
— She’s in the hospital, critical condition, he finished.

Marissa’s jaw tightened, her heart pounding. She leaned forward, her voice rising in protest. Larson’s gaze was unrelenting, his notepad ready. The accusation felt like a trap.

— You think I caused that? Marissa snapped.
— Maybe she ate something bad later, she said.
— Or took a pill, Marissa added, grasping.
— I don’t touch serious cases, she insisted.

Larson scribbled, his face unreadable. He looked up, his tone steady but firm. Marissa’s frustration boiled over, her hands gesturing wildly. She wasn’t backing down.

— Did you tell her to see a doctor? Larson asked.
— Absolutely, Marissa nodded vigorously.
— I gave her diuretic tea and a prayer, she said.
— That’s it, nothing more, she stressed.

Larson’s eyes narrowed, unconvinced. Marissa’s explanation sounded thin, even to her. The deputy’s voice grew sharper, cutting through her defense. She felt the walls closing in.

— Her condition crashed after your tea, Larson said.
— That’s not a coincidence, he added.
— I’m careful, Marissa said, her voice firm.
— I don’t play doctor, she repeated.

Larson stood, motioning toward the door. Marissa’s stomach dropped, but she held her head high. The situation was out of her control now. She grabbed her purse, her movements tense.

— You’re coming with us, Ms. Walters, Larson said.
— I’ve got a client in thirty minutes! Marissa protested.
— They’ll survive, Larson said dryly.
— Unlike some of your clients, he added coldly.

Marissa’s eyes flashed with anger at the jab. She slung her purse over her shoulder, muttering under her breath. Larson opened the door, his expression unchanging. The morning had taken a dark turn.

— That’s harsh, Marissa said, stepping outside.
— Truth hurts, Larson replied, following her.
— Let’s move, he said, pointing to his cruiser.
— This isn’t over, Marissa whispered to herself.

At the Willow Creek Sheriff’s Station, Marissa was booked. Ellen Nichols’ family was furious, demanding justice. The sheriff saw an opportunity to make a point. Marissa’s fate was in his hands.

— Put her in the tank, the sheriff said, chuckling.
— The tough crowd will break her, he told his deputy.
— Let’s see how she handles them, he added.
— Get her talking, he instructed.

The cell door clanged open, revealing a group of intimidating women. A tall, muscular woman with a buzz cut pointed at Marissa. Her grin was more challenge than welcome. The air crackled with tension.

— Well, look who’s here! the woman said.
— Fancy lady in our tank! she mocked.
— Your tank? Marissa raised an eyebrow.
— Didn’t know I needed an invite, she shot back.

The woman, nicknamed Tank, broke into a gravelly song about foster care. Halfway through, she clutched her throat, silenced. Marissa watched, her face carefully neutral. The other women froze, staring.

Five minutes later, Tank’s voice returned. She gaped at Marissa, her tough facade shaken. Whispers spread among the group. Marissa stayed calm, her smirk barely hidden.

— You a witch or something? Tank gasped.
— Did you do that to me? she demanded.
— No clue what you’re talking about, Marissa said.
— Just standing here, she added, shrugging.

An older woman with gold teeth nodded approvingly. Her tattooed knuckles gleamed under the dim cell light. She studied Marissa with keen interest. The mood shifted slightly.