When the office phone rang on that late August afternoon, I didn’t think much of it.  I took one hand off the keyboard and brought the phone up to my ear, cradling it against between my head and shoulder then tried to resume the email I was typing.

“Hi, I’m with the <county> police department. Am I speaking to Michael Marchi?” 

I stopped typing.  “Yes. “

“Is your brother, Steven Marchi?”

“Yes.  What is this about?”

“To confirm identity, could you tell me his date of birth?”

“Yes I can.  Who are you again?”

“My name is Detective <name>.  I need to be sure I’m speaking with a relative of Steven Marchi before I can continue.”

I told her Steven’s birthday.

“Okay sir.  A Missing Person’s report has been filed by Mr. Marchi’s roommate.  Have you seen or heard from your brother in the last few weeks?”

“I haven’t heard from my brother in the last few years.  Did you say you’re in Atlanta?”

“Yes sir.”

“I thought he was in L.A.”

“No sir, according to his roommate he has been in Atlanta for a couple years now.”

“Have you talked to my parents yet?  They might have heard from him more recently.”

“No sir.  We tried, but received no answer.”

“They’re not at home right now, but I can give you a contact number for them…”

And so it began.

Everything that has happened since that day has been a bizarre journey into half-truths and speculation that have taken things I thought to be true, and turned them on their head.  As I got involved, I would have to come to terms with several years of estrangement from my brother.  I would hear things that I thought couldn’t be true, and other things I knew were false.

My brother was missing, and his friends were worried.