PRETTY LITTLE LIARS
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RIP
PRETTY LITTLE LIARS
* * *
RIP
Lisa Renee Jones
Kindle Worlds
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 by Lisa Renee Jones.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program. All characters, scenes, events, themes, plots and related elements of the Pretty Little Liars remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Alloy Entertainment LLC / Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc., its affiliates or licensors.
For more information on the Kindle Worlds publishing program: www.amazon.com/kindleworlds
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
All Rights Reserved.
Published by Kindle Worlds
Las Vegas, NV 89140
Digital ISBN: 9781477859285
CONTENTS
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Start Reading
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Birds of a feather flock together. They also die together.
— RIP
I am not the Darla Rogers who left Rosewood a year and a half ago for NYU. I am not “her,” and I never will be again. I’ve reassured myself of this over and over during the entire two-hour drive I’ve just completed, determined to make it true. With a deep breath, I step inside my old hangout, The Brew, and out of the chill of the Pennsylvania December wind, and my nostrils flare with the rich scent of hazelnut and coffee.
Taking in the view of the cozy seating, dangling lights, and the modern art on the walls, I am awash with memories that stir a confusing mix of longing for what I’ve left behind and the fear of what I can never escape. How many afternoons had I spent here, happily a part of a group of six? I’d seen Aria, Alison, Hanna, Emily, and yes, even Spencer, whom I’d bumped heads with often, as sisters. Then “it” had happened and changed everything. My stomach churns with the history I’ve tried to block out. I thought leaving for college would end this torment. I thought I’d finally escaped. But it didn’t work. I’ve been forced to return.
The bells chime on the door behind me, and a sudden gust of cold air lifts my long blond hair. I quickly dart toward the counter and out of the chill. I probably should have opted for jeans today, but that same, ridiculous need to impress everyone in this town—the need I’d experienced most of my life—had reared its ugly head while I’d been dressing. I’d quickly stuffed my jeans in my suitcase and instead decided on a fitted black dress and high-heeled boots, with tights meant to keep me warm.
The guy behind the register, a twenty-something cutie with longish brown hair and a cleft in his chin, isn’t familiar to me. You’d think in such a small town of a whopping 7,500 residents I’d still know everyone after only a year away—but the local community college draws a lot of people in from nearby Brookhaven and Ravenswood.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
“Hazelnut latte,” I say, ordering my old standby. I’m here. I might not want to embrace the past, but I cannot resist tasting it. “And make it skinny, please.”
He writes my order on a paper cup and passes it to a girl working the espresso machine. “Three-fifty.”
I unzip my Louis Vuitton wallet, the last thing my mother ever gave me, and hand him my credit card.
“You’re new around here,” he comments, running my payment through the card reader.
“No,” I correct. “You’re new around here.”
“I’ve been here a year.”
“And I lived here for seventeen years. I left for college.”
“What’s wrong with Hollis?”
“Not the best place to prepare for law school.”
He whistles. “Impressive. A lawyer.” He flicks a look at my card and then sets it on the counter. “Nice to meet you, Darla. I’m Tad.”
There’s no way I can miss the flirtation in his tone. I’d find it a compliment, but I know how it goes in this small town. With so few choices, I’m fresh meat. It’s one of the many reasons I’m glad I left this place. I don’t want to settle for someone I can find rather than someone truly special. Not that I would know much about what qualifies as special. I’m not exactly known for good choices in men.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and give Tad a cautious smile, hoping I won’t encourage his attention by being too friendly. Fortunately, another customer steps up behind me, allowing me an escape, and I quickly scoot to the end of the counter to wait for my drink.
Tad ignores his customer. “You staying around here or visiting?”
“I’m here for winter break,” I reply, but I’m no longer focused on Tad. I’m focused on the man in profile waiting to place his order. There’s something about him that’s familiar, and I try to place him. Tall, in jeans and a leather jacket, with long raven hair tied at his nape, he’s got this edgy masculinity about him, almost a bad boy vibe, that isn’t common in Rosewood. I will him to turn and let me see his face. Surely I’ll know him then. I just can’t see myself forgetting a man like this one, especially here in Rosewood where everyone knows everything about everyone else.
“Hazelnut latte,” the girl behind the counter announces.
With some effort, I force my gaze away from the stranger and accept my drink. “Thank you.”
Coffee in hand, I shift my purse on my shoulder and spot the corner table on the other side of the shop that I used to frequent with my friends. Where I’ll reunite with at least one of them today.
Heading in that direction, I cross behind the man, and I’m still bothered by his familiarity. For some reason, figuring out how I know him feels important, even urgent.
Once I’m at my old favorite table, I turn toward the counter as I shrug myself out of my long coat, hoping to identify the man. And darn it, I’m too late. He’s walking to the opposite side of the shop, his back to me. I sigh and set my jacket and purse on the extra chair next to me. He’s too far away, shadowed by the dim lighting and the condiments center, for me to possibly make out now.
I’m about to sit down when the door to The Brew opens and Aria rushes in, her long, dark brown hair in beautiful, windblown disarray. She scans the shop. Her eyes settle on me and light up before she rushes in my direction.
“Darla!”
I meet her at the edge of the table for a hug, and I’m surprised by the sense of coming home I feel in this moment. But then, Aria and I share the same secret. We are bonded by a dark spot neither of us wants discovered.
“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” she says, leaning back to look at me. “I tried to call you so many times and your number was disconnected.”
“You did?” I ask, watching her take off her coat and thinking of all the times I thought this place had forgotten me far easier than I had forgotten it.
“Many times,” Aria assures me, sitting down, and her pink “Hollis reads right” t-shirt seems a good indicator that she’s still set on her dream of teaching English. But then, I know that. RIP has told me everything about everyone. Almost as if he is the soul of this small city. “We all tried to call you,” Aria continues. “Everyone is going to want to see you. Why didn’t you call sooner or give us your new number?”
“I gave it to Ali. I thought … she was supposed to pass it along.”
Instant tension envelopes us like a tight band. For several seconds, we both just sit there, staring at each other. “You weren’t at her memorial service,” Aria whi
spers. “You should have been there.”
“I didn’t know about Ali.” I hesitate. “She and I stopped talking not long after I left.” And she stopped taking my calls. It had hurt. I’d lived with her the two years after my parents had died in a house fire. Her family had been all I’d had left.
“She told us she talked to you and how great school was and how happy you were.”
“She didn’t talk to me. I’m just glad I still had your number.”
“Me too. The other girls will want to see you. Why didn’t you want me to bring them?”
I hesitate, knowing what I have to tell her is going to be hard to believe. “This is going to sound crazy, but I’ve been getting text messages from … well …”
Her eyes go wide, and she leans in close to me. “You’ve been getting messages from ‘A’?”
I shake my head. “Not from A. Mine come from someone called RIP.”
Her face pales. “Rest in peace?”
“Yes,” I say. “Clearly, a person with a sick sense of humor, but he or she—I think it’s a he—told me about the A team. Aria, he told me that Alison is the leader. He says you all need to get out of Rosewood and should split up so that you aren’t easy targets. That’s why I’m here. He wants you to leave, and quickly. Pack a bag and get out of this town.”
“Alison can’t be alive. The police found her body.”
“RIP knows things only Alison could know. He has to be her or someone she trusted and, since he’s warning me about Alison, it’s logical that it isn’t her.”
“Ali kept journals,” Aria says. “All of our secrets were inside. The ‘A’ team found the journals. They’re using them to taunt us.”
“What if this ‘A’ team doesn’t need the journals because Alison is their leader?”
“It can’t be,” Aria insists. “It just can’t be.”
My phone beeps with a text, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I reach for my phone in my coat pocket, and my gaze lifts and settles on the counter, where Tad and some unfamiliar girl have their heads huddled close, looking in our direction. I frown and glance down at the text.
Death becomes her if you don’t make her believe. RIP
I suck in a breath. RIP has to be here, watching us. My gaze jerks upward, and I find Tad helping a customer. The girl he’d been talking to is nowhere in sight. I shift my gaze toward the stranger, and he’s gone.
“What is it?” Aria asks. “What’s wrong? What did the message say?”
I glance out the large window beside us, at the people strolling by, and realize how easy it would be for someone to watch us from beyond The Brew.
“Darla,” Aria pleads. “What is it?”
I turn my phone around and show her the message. What little color she has left in her face washes away. “Me? Death becomes me?”
I nod. “He says that Ali plans to kill you all off one by one. I don’t know the order. Well, all except one. Me.” My gut knots, and I leave out the part about me, that I’m going to be framed for the murders.
Aria leans in close again. “A few months ago there was a fire, and someone pulled us out. A couple of us thought we saw Alison’s face, but it’s just crazy. She’s dead, and why would she pull us out if she wants us to be dead, too?”
“You know how Alison was,” I remind her. “She wants things on her terms. You wear what she wants. You date whoever she wants you to date. You die when she wants you to die.”
“You really think she’s alive?” she whispers.
“I think we have to convince the police to do an autopsy of the body,” I say.
“How are we going to do that?”
I thumb through my cell phone and show Aria the pictures I’ve loaded. “Look at the date and time stamp. RIP sent them to me.”
Aria studies the photos. “How do we know they aren’t doctored?”
I inhale. “We don’t, but maybe the police—”
“They won’t do anything. We’ve tried. ‘A’ always makes us look like fools.”
“We have to find a way to make them listen. And Aria, you have to get out of town. You all do. Split up so you aren’t targets.”
“What if that makes us easier targets?”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that. And … and I have—”
“Ezra,” I say. “I know, but what happens when ‘A’ decides to kill him to torture you?”
“Why would she hate us this much?”
“You tell me,” I say. “What happened the night she supposedly died?”
Aria cuts her gaze to the window. “I don’t know. I …” She turns back to me. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Ali thinks you do. We should talk to the other girls. I rented a room at the Hollis Hotel. I want it to seem like I’m just here for a holiday. Can you arrange to get everyone to my place tonight? Say seven o’clock. We can’t risk anyone hearing us talk.”
“Yes,” Aria agrees, standing up to grab her coat. “I’ll get them there, but no one is going to want to leave. We’re going to fight to the end.”
I hug her again, and squeeze my eyes shut. Until the end. I fear that might be exactly what happens.
When I walk out of the coffee shop, that prickling sensation of being watched is back. Nervously, I glance around, seeking out the source, but finding none. Though it’s broad daylight, only four o’clock, I rush to my car with the brisk pace of someone who feels he’ll be grabbed at any moment. By the time I’m inside my rented Taurus and I’ve locked the doors, my heart is racing so fast I feel like it might explode out of my chest. I hate this sensation, and I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or real danger. But the truth is that I lived with Ali. I know things about her. I know what she is capable of like no one else does. And I know her secret. The one she doesn’t want the other girls to know. But I’m going to tell them tonight. I know whose body was really in that grave.
I start the engine and back out of the space, and I plan to go to my hotel—but somehow, I drive toward Ali’s old house. RIP said it was vacant, that her brother had come to remodel it and then disappeared. I wonder if Ali made him disappear—if he had learned too much?
Once I’m at the house, I pull down a side street and park, afraid of seeing Spencer, who lives next door. I don’t want to see her now. Not yet. Not without the other girls to talk logic into her head. She never listens to me, no matter what the consequences.
Really wishing for jeans and a t-shirt, I wrap my coat tightly around me and head to the back door of the house. I am again awash in memories, and not the good, nostalgic kind. I don’t know why I needed to come here. I swore I’d never return. But once I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs, I know. This place was where I went when my parents died. It was my home. And I wish Ali’s parents hadn’t moved away after her disappearance. I wish I had called them instead of waiting for them to call me. But I knew Ali didn’t like their attachment to me. When I’d left, I’d been so tired of fighting with her.
With a chilly inhaled breath, I walk up the steps to the porch and head to the five-foot marble statue of an angel Ali’s mom loved so much in the far right corner. I’d hidden a key beneath it years ago, after Ali had locked me out of the house in a fit of anger. I lift the bottom of the angel to see if it’s still there. It isn’t. Someone found the key.
Disappointed, I walk to the door and, knowing it’s a worthless effort, I still try the door. To my surprise, it opens. My heart begins to race wildly all over again, and I’m not even sure why. The house is dark, the only light coming from the windows, and the beams of quickly fading late afternoon sunlight.
The instant I step inside, someone grabs me. I gasp as I am pressed against the door that has just been slammed shut. I blink up at the man from the coffee shop, his hands pressed to the wooden surface by my head, his big body crowding mine without touching me, his long, dark hair loose now, his face shadowed in the dark room.
“She was lost and now she’s found
,” he says softly.
“Who are you?”
“The name is Rip, sweetheart.”
“Rip?” I ask in disbelief. “Your name is Rip?”
“That’s right.”
“As in ‘rest in peace’?”
“I’m not tired, but thank you.”
“I … that’s not funny.”
“I’m not known for my jokes.”
He’s so familiar. I wish I could see him more clearly. “How do I know you?”
“Think about it,” he says softly. “Think really hard, Darla, and you’ll figure it out.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones is the author of the highly acclaimed INSIDE OUT TRILOGY, which has sold to more than ten countries for translation, with negotiations in process for more, and has now been optioned by STARZ Network for a cable television show, to be produced by Suzanne Todd (Alice in Wonderland).
Since beginning her publishing career in 2007, Lisa has published more than 30 books with publishers such as Simon and Schuster, Avon, Kensington, Harlequin, NAL, Berkley, and Elloras Cave, as well as crafting a successful indie career. Booklist says that Jones’s suspense truly sizzles with an energy similar to FBI tales with a paranormal twist by Julie Garwood or Suzanne Brockmann.
Prior to publishing, Lisa owned a multistate staffing agency that was recognized many times by The Austin Business Journal and also praised by Dallas Women Magazine. In 1998 her agency was listed as the seventh-ranked, growing, woman-owned business in Entrepreneur Magazine.
Lisa loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at www.lisareneejones.com, and she is active on Twitter and Facebook daily.
Lisa Renee Jones, Rip
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