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His lips thin and his eyes gleam like blades.
“You really want to know? Fine. You have more of a vested interest in the town’s tourism than anyone else in this room, minus yours truly. If we don’t move our asses and bury some devastating bad press, Pinnacle Pointe may never recover.”
Bad press? What?
Who could have anything bad to say about Pinnacle Pointe?
It’s a portrait of serenity.
There isn’t much there in modern conveniences, sure, but there isn’t much to complain about either.
“Experience tells me if this garbage proliferates unchecked, long-term opinions will harden in under a week. That’s the news cycle. If people hear attacks repeated every day about this town with nothing to counter it, eventually they’ll believe it. And once they’ve bought the lie, the truth no longer matters. The attacks have to be combated with positive press or we don’t have a fighting chance. Your inn will be worthless. The general store and the bar will shut down. The few jobs left there will dry up in no time. So, Jenn, if you don’t want a ghost town, kindly put our bickering aside and get on board.”
What flipping attacks?
“I don’t understand. Who would come after Pinnacle Pointe?”
He sighs. “Jenn, just go help the team. We don’t have time for this now, I promise you.”
I glare at him.
“I’ll explain everything later.” His voice softens. “If you have any issues with the project, come straight to me, okay? Time is critical.”
The heavy weight in his eyes is the only thing that makes me bite my tongue until it hurts, spin around, and march out his door.
On the elevator ride down, all I can think about is how this makes no sense.
The only person I know who doesn’t like Pinnacle Pointe is my dad, and that’s because he’s a city boy who’s allergic to fresh air and wild salmon.
What happened?
There’s only one way to find out.
I don’t hear from Miles the rest of the day.
He has no intention of talking about what happened.
Big surprise.
Chalk it up to one more broken promise. But the fact that he won’t explain what the hell is going on worries me more.
Where are these attacks coming from? And why?
Despite being buried under a mountain of work, I can’t resist some sleuthing.
I don’t leave the office until after eleven. Forty-eight hours isn’t enough time to clean up the mess, but a girl has to sleep sometime. Thankfully, Dad took the dogs out on his evening jog, and they’re still content with their bones by the time I drag through the door with a burrito for dinner.
Lying on my bed, I open my laptop and Google Pinnacle Pointe.
The first hit in the news is an article about drugs and crime.
Um, what?
I’m instantly annoyed.
I’ve only lived there for a couple months, but Gram would have been the first to notice if anything was turning shady there.
Still, I click the link, holding my breath as my eyes scan over the title.
Pinnacle Pointe: The Peak of The Opioid Crisis
At first glance, Pinnacle Pointe seems like another idyllic small town nestled on an island along the Olympic Peninsula. Tourists usually stick to the main strip or The Bee Harbor Inn, a long-time favorite until its recent closure.
Just past miles of sandy beachfront with picturesque shorelines, you’ll find the town’s general store, an Irish pub, and a diner that’s only open through lunch.
That’s it. That’s Pinnacle Pointe, a place that looks too honest for secrets.
Or is it?
Two blocks up Blakely Street, a different story begins to unfold.
An image fills the screen. It’s a residential neighborhood.
I recognize a few of the houses, most of them are in various stages of disrepair. Some of them look like they might blow over with a strong enough wind. The caption reads, 'The Real Pinnacle Pointe.'
There’s an old neighborhood in need of repair. Then there’s two more up the street. The same grim chapter of old-world Washington in decline that’s played out a hundred times, except here, it’s the entire story.
Another busted-up neighborhood fills the screen. I scroll past pictures of homes with worn, dislodged siding and greenish algae on the roofs.
Until 2001, Pinnacle Pointe’s poverty rate was steady. Then the fishing industry went into a downward spiral, faced with fierce competition from larger corporate mergers and foreign suppliers.
With job loss came peril, and soon, destitution.
Now with only a handful of local businesses left, job opportunities are scarcer than ever.
Anyone who can, plans their escape. The town’s negative population growth just keeps diving as young people exit for better opportunities.
Another image pops up. A tiny brunette woman with lines carved by stress on her cheeks, holding a microphone in front of a waitress I think I recognize from Murphy’s.
Jessica King says, “I can’t wait to leave this town! The pub is the only work in town, and so many customers don’t even tip. Try living on minimum wage with guys getting grabby. And sometimes, when the tips do come in from the summer crowd, you’ll see another customer trying to swipe the cash from the table. It’s awful.”
