The Questionnaire

Katherine stood at her friend's sink and washed the last wine glasses and plates that had held the dainties and sandwiches. She'd wished she'd never come to book club and would leave as soon as she was done.

She heard the other ladies enter the kitchen and surround her in a semi-circle. There was no escape. Cynthia led the pack.

"We were wondering why you didn't filled out the questionnaire in the appendix?"

"Oh, but I had." She was sure Victoria had ratted her out. That damn woman had been studying her like a hawk all afternoon.

"We know you didn't—"

"I don't know what people told you—" She glanced at  Victoria.

"No, one told us. We just know."

Katherine gulped. Cynthia's eyes were steely, like a predator aware of a wounded animal.

"I promise... I did," Katherine stammered.

"If you had read it, we'd know." Cynthia and the other women put their hands on their chests. "We'd feel it inside."

They stepped towards her. "You should have filled out the questionnaire, Katherine. Now you're no longer one of us."

Katherine stumbled backwards, her back against the counter, the dirty, wet dishcloth staining her sundress. She reached for something to defend herself—a knife or broken glass—but she wasn't quick enough.

The ladies descended upon her and tore her down.