Oktar recieved a letter in the mail a week later, a week after angrily stomping about the house, wondering where the hell his wife was, after breaking a few things. The letter was typed, he found it with the rest of the mail but it didn’t have a stamp on the plain white envelope. Just his name, no return address, no post mark, no stamp. It had been hand delivered. With shaking hands he opened the envelope and looked down at the plain, proffessional font. It was about his wife.