Under the Skin (Ritual Crime Unit) by E. E. Richardson

expression telegraphed the action; the first thing she knew about it was the fist that cracked her across the jaw. She reeled backwards, stunned not just by the impact, but by the source of the attack.
    “Tim, what—?” There was no time to gasp the question as a gut punch smashed her breath away. “Jesus—” She barely blocked the next blow with her elbow as she flinched back.
    She raised the penlight, trying to get a good look at his face. Completely blank, no sign of murderous rage, panic, or any hint of regret. He was relentless, coming after her in total silence.
    It made no sense. Tim wouldn’t just attack like this, even if he thought she was a killer. He had police training, he was a sweet kid—she would have sworn there wasn’t a violent bone in his body.
    The fist that flashed towards her head called her a liar. Pierce ducked away from him, retreating, moving further away from the door. It might have been smarter to try to get past him and make a break for her car, but she couldn’t leave without finding out why. Was Tim being pressured into this—bribed, threatened, blackmailed? She swallowed the urge to demand he explain himself again. She needed all her breath just to keep dodging.
    It was hard to pinpoint Tim in the dark unit. All she heard were soft rustles and her own breathing. She flicked the penlight about, the beam lighting up damp-stained walls, support pillars, the murky shadows.
    A faint sound. She spun, just in time to catch him with the beam as he lunged and wrapped his hands around her throat. “Shit!” The word became a wheeze as he dug in with his thumbs. When did Tim get so damn strong ? Pierce slammed the heel of her hand into his stomach, but it felt like she’d hit a wall of pure muscle. He might look like a gawky kid, but he had reach and youth on her, and she didn’t have the strength to force him off.
    “This isn’t you, Tim,” she squeezed out around the crushing pressure.
    He gave a guttural laugh. “Oh, you have no idea , you stupid old bitch,” he said, and now there was nothing in his voice of the Tim she knew at all.
    It made it easier to thread the keys between her fingers and slash at his face.
    She couldn’t miss at this range, with his hands wrapped around her throat, but her strike cut even deeper than she’d aimed. The key’s serrated edge tore through his cheek, and he let her go as he reeled back, clutching his face and swearing. The penlight hanging from the keys swung wildly, picking out parts of the room in confusing splashes of light.
    Pierce kicked at Tim, but missed him in the darkness, throwing herself off-balance. He shoved her and she went sprawling across the concrete floor, the handcuffs at her belt digging into her side.
    Her cuffs. She fought to tug them out as she scrambled back to her feet, belatedly remembering police training. Tim kicked out at her midsection as she fumbled with them, almost knocking her right back to the floor. She wheezed, muscles protesting as she rose and staggered back. She was too old and tired to take much more of this.
    She raised the penlight as Tim came towards her. A flap of skin was peeling down from his cheek where she’d slashed it, but in the weak torchlight she couldn’t see any blood. A pained rictus distorted his face as he stumbled after her, movements clumsy even though she could swear that she’d barely touched him.
    Pierce shone the light straight into his eyes, reflecting off his glasses, and he raised his arm to shield them with a snarl. In the moment he was blinded, she punched out with the cuffs held looped around her fist like knuckle dusters. It jarred her hand, but Tim fell backwards, clutching his nose with a howl. Before he had any chance to recover from the blow, she lunged forward, snapping the silver cuff tightly around his left wrist.
    “Right!” she barked, yanking on the cuffs and shining the light in his eyes. “Enough pissing around! What the hell is going on, Tim?”
    But the