How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 168

Elodie figured Jarrod was probably with Sylvie again.

Most days, it never bothered her—whatever he did with Sylvie, she felt nothing, completely indifferent.

But tonight…

She couldn't help herself. Jealousy, or maybe just a restless curiosity, crept in.

When Elodie walked through the front door, her grandmother's face broke into a wide, relieved smile. She hurried over, fussing over Elodie—asking about her day, her appetite, the cold weather outside—before inevitably steering the conversation to Jarrod. "Why didn't he come home with you? What's that boy up to now?"

Elodie lowered her eyes. "I don't know."

Her grandmother looked displeased. Without another word, she grabbed her phone and dialed Jarrod's number.

This time, he picked up.

So—he'd been deliberately ignoring her calls before.

Her grandmother's tone turned stern. "It's after eight. You should be home for dinner."

God knows what he replied, but her grandmother's expression softened a little.

After she hung up, she squeezed Elodie's hand. "We won't wait for him. Let him figure it out himself."

Even if he couldn't make it back right away, Elodie knew Jarrod would eventually come home tonight.

Someone brought her a plate of sliced fruit, but Elodie had no appetite at all.

She'd felt off all day—just barely hanging on through the dinner party, and now her head throbbed, heavy and clouded.

She couldn't take it anymore.

Grabbing her laptop, she trudged upstairs to get some rest.

Sleep came fitfully, haunted and shallow. She dreamed again of that night her mother, Winifred, died—her heart hollowed out by grief, regret, and longing.

She jolted awake, forehead damp with cold sweat.

The bedside lamp cast a faint, golden glow, but the room felt cavernous and silent. The loneliness felt like a physical ache—one she'd grown familiar with these past three years.

She checked her phone. Four in the morning.

Had Jarrod never come home?

Elodie tried to sit up, but the weight of the comforter pressed her down.

"You're awake?"

He poured a glass of water, read the labels on the medications, double-checking the dosage and side effects before bringing a few pills to her bedside. "You're running a fever. Take these first."

Elodie hesitated, frowning.

Only then did she notice the open packets of fever-relief patches on the table—he must have put them on her.

So that's why he hadn't slept yet?

She didn't move, her sickly pale face unreadable.

He couldn't just ignore her when she was sick right in front of him—no matter how distant they'd grown.

Thinking she might hate the taste of the pills, Jarrod set the water and medicine on the nightstand and softened his tone. "I brought you some dried cranberries. Take a couple after the medicine, okay?"

Elodie glanced down at the little dish.

Jarrod saw her color hadn't improved.

Her blanket had slipped halfway off—dangerous for someone running a fever, catching cold like that. He leaned forward to tuck the comforter around her.

But as his hand reached toward her, Elodie jerked away on instinct, voice sharp. "Don't touch me!"