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.