He Buried Me But I Painted My Own Resurrection novel Chapter 19

Sienna made her way up to the second floor and stopped in front of the familiar door at the end of the hallway.

As her hand wrapped around the doorknob, she hesitated for a second. It was unlocked. Pushing it open, she was immediately hit by an overwhelming, sickeningly sweet wave of expensive perfume.

The bedsheets had been swapped out for bright pink ones, strewn with brand-new designer dresses still carrying their tags.

The vanity was cluttered with countless jars of skincare, and tucked into the corner of the mirror was a photo of Lyla clinging happily to Grant's arm.

The closet doors were left ajar, entirely filled with Lyla's wardrobe.

It hit her—this hadn't been her bedroom for a long time.

"Ms. Sawyer." An unfamiliar woman's voice called out from behind her.

Sienna turned around to see a woman in her early forties, dressed in a crisp blue maid's uniform, her hair tied back in a neat bun.

"I'm the new housekeeper, Helen."

Helen glanced nervously into the bedroom, then back at Sienna, looking intensely uncomfortable.

"Ms. Lennox left instructions earlier. She's already had another room prepared for you."

Sienna looked at her. "Where?"

"The... the maid's quarters."

Sienna didn't argue. She had seen this kind of petty humiliation coming from a mile away.

She followed Helen, not heading upstairs, but down.

As they passed through the main living room, Lyla's slippers were kicked carelessly by the sofa, and the poodle's squeaky toy sat abandoned in the middle of the expensive rug.

They walked past the living area and turned down a narrow hallway next to the utility room.

Behind a nondescript door lay a flight of descending stairs.

The basement.

Helen pushed open a door at the very end of the subterranean corridor and stepped aside to let her in.

The room was tiny, barely ninety square feet.

A single cot was pushed up against the wall. The blanket was folded neatly, but the pillow was cheap synthetic foam, stiff and unyielding to the touch.

There was no nightstand, just a single folding chair. A sliver of a window sat high up near the ceiling, barely letting in a fraction of natural light.

She sat on the edge of the bed for a while before her phone vibrated in her pocket.

Pulling it out, she saw Eleanor's name flashing on the screen.

The moment she answered, the elderly woman's warm, loving voice filled her ear.

"Sienna, sweetheart, have you eaten dinner yet?"

Her words were slow and gentle, carrying the comforting, rambling warmth typical of an affectionate grandmother.

"I have."

"You haven't come to see me in so long. How have you been? Has that foolish boy Grant been giving you a hard time?"

"If he's upsetting you, you just tell me, and I'll give him a piece of my mind."

Sienna's eyes instantly welled up with hot tears.

In her twenty-something years of life, the times she had felt truly loved were heartbreakingly rare. Since her own grandmother passed, Eleanor was the only person left in the world who made her feel like she actually mattered.

She gripped her phone tightly, pressing the back of her head against the wall, staring up at the dim, low-wattage bulb dangling from the ceiling as she aggressively blinked her tears away.