CHAPTER 134: CHAPTER 134: HOLLY CROWE IS FRAMED (PART 3)

The night in the mountains was thick and impenetrable, deathly silent.

The sound of the crash seemed to still echo in the ears.

The front end of the black Audi was already caved in, and a metal plate had fallen off the front of the Porsche’s headlights.

"There was an accident!"

"Come and take a look!"

The crowd consisted of men and women, young and old, all holding up their phones, cameras pointed mercilessly at Holly Crowe.

And when Mia Chapelle uttered the words "drunk driving," it completely set things ablaze!

The look in everyone’s eyes immediately turned from curiosity to blatant condemnation and anger.

"Drunk driving is a crime! And hitting a pregnant woman, that’s utterly despicable!"

"You look respectable enough, how could you do such a vile thing!"

"Don’t drink and drive, don’t drive if you drink! Didn’t your parents teach you? Or do you think the law doesn’t apply to you anymore?"

"Is having money such a big deal? Does having money mean you don’t regard us ordinary people’s lives as lives?"

The spectators pointed at Holly’s white dress and the Porsche, shouting sharply, "Dressed like a model, driving a luxury car, do you think you’re so great? Drunk driving and hitting someone, may you die a horrible death!"

Every word dripping with malice, falling upon Holly like a wave meant to drown her completely.

Holly stood there, the dizziness from the crash hadn’t completely faded, but a deeper chill had already spread through her body.

Something’s not right... everything is just too wrong.

She looked toward the Audi.

Daniel Alden clambered out of the car, and upon seeing the blood beneath Mia Chapelle, his face was filled with uncontainable panic, but when his eyes met Holly’s gaze, he guiltily avoided them.

He shakily took out his phone to call, shouting urgently into the receiver, "Hello! Is this 110? This is the road down from the Beldon Botanical Gardens, near the highway entrance. Someone’s drunk driving and caused an accident, hitting a pregnant woman, the culprit’s name is Holly Crowe! Come quickly!"

After hanging up with 110, he then dialed 120, his tone still anxious.

But inverting the order of his calls made Holly feel something was off, her heart sank.

First call the police to accuse of drunk driving, then call for an ambulance?

Something was very wrong.

From the suggestive look Shannon Yarrow gave at the art exhibit, to her persistent demands to change cars, and the "coincidentally" appearing black Audi at the mountain road exit.

It all linked together seamlessly, like a premeditated plan.

Was this really an accident?

The ridicule and flashes wrapped tightly around her, nearly suffocating.

Holly stood alone in the middle of the road, surrounded by an endless darkness in every direction.

The reprimanding voices continued, Mia Chapelle cried and questioned if Holly did it on purpose.

Some young people, upon hearing "Holly," immediately connected the name to a recent trending topic online, moving closer with flashlights to see her face clearly.

"No way, is she a famous online personality?"

"Who cares who she is, drunk driving is against the law!"

Holly forced herself to stay calm, loudly explaining, "I wasn’t drunk driving!"

But her voice was quickly drowned out by louder shouts of rebuke from the crowd.

"Not drunk driving? Who are you fooling!"

Earlier, she hastily got out of the car, and the window was still open.

Suddenly, someone exaggeratedly screamed, pointing at the open car window, "You said you didn’t drink? Smell it, the car reeks of alcohol, it must be driving under the influence!"

The shout brought several people over, sniffing loudly and agreeing:

"Yes! It’s a strong smell of alcohol! Definitely liquor!"

"Drunk driving! It’s attempted murder! Arrest her and send her to jail!"

Holly’s heart sank, she too caught a whiff of the suddenly pervasive alcohol smell in the air.

She quickly moved towards the backseat to investigate, but a man in a checkered shirt was faster, pulling open the car door.

He glanced into the backseat and emerged, holding an empty white liquor bottle.

It was the traditional liquor prepared by the exhibit hosts earlier.

"Caught red-handed and still trying to deny it?"

He shook the bottle as the pungent smell dispersed through the night breeze.

"This isn’t my car, and that bottle isn’t mine!"

Holly defended herself, but no one paid attention.

The onlookers only believed what they saw as "evidence."

Seeing she still intended to approach the car, the man in the checkered shirt immediately pointed and yelled, "She’s going to destroy the evidence! Stop her!"

A few men exchanged glances, immediately surrounding her with hostile intentions.

They even reached towards her, their movements rough, their eyes lecherous.

With those malevolent stares, Holly had no doubt that being caught by them would result in unimaginable consequences!

Who knows what kind of unsightly headlines would appear online tomorrow.

She found a gap to retreat a few steps quickly, slipping back into the car, locking the doors.

Inside the car, the backseat reeked strongly of alcohol, yet she hadn’t smelled anything when she got in earlier.

Where was the smell coming from?

And that bottle just now...

The specific details she didn’t dare to think about, only feeling her limbs growing cold.

Continuous pounding on the car window resounded around her.

Holly tried to find her phone, fumbling wildly, accidentally tapping the start button in her panic, and the engine roared to life.

Outside, people were even more agitated, the checkered shirt man lunged forward, "She’s trying to run!"

"She’s going to hit-and-run! Don’t let her get away!"

The yelling and cursing outside grew more frantic, and Holly quickly turned off the engine.

Finally finding her phone, just as she was about to dial Blake Sinclair’s number, she heard distant sirens.

Red and blue lights pierced through the night.

"The police are here!"

Someone shouted, and the crowd around the car finally backed off.

and 120 arrived at the scene almost simultaneously.

The police swiftly took control of the situation, dispersing the crowd, while the medical team lifted Mia Chapelle onto the ambulance.

The leading officer approached the Porsche, knocking on the window.

Seeing the uniform outside, Holly felt somewhat reassured, and slowly rolled down the window.

Outside was a stern yet familiar face.

His voice was steady, with a touch of officialdom, "Hello, Beldon Criminal Police First Team, Ulysses Grant. We received a report that you’re involved in a traffic accident caused by alleged drunk driving, please cooperate with our investigation."

"Criminal police?"

Someone mumbled quietly, "Isn’t drunk driving under the traffic police’s jurisdiction?"

"What do you know, blood was involved, it might be a criminal case!"

"Yeah, drunk driving hitting a pregnant woman, it’s definitely a more serious case."

"Oh, so serious? Jail time maybe."

Ulysses Grant’s gaze swept over those taking photos, giving a signal to his subordinates.

The police officer nearby stepped up, "Please cooperate and delete any videos or photos you’ve taken, and don’t spread misleading information."

The crowd, which had been enjoying the spectacle, immediately fell silent.

Those who had initially encouraged the chaos were nowhere to be found.

A female officer accompanied Holly out of the car, considerately draping a coat over her to shield her from the prying and malicious stares.

With the sirens blaring,

Holly was placed in a police car, sitting in the backseat.

Ulysses Grant sat beside her, quickly typing on his phone.

Suddenly, he coughed softly, his elbow gently nudging Holly by chance.

Instinctively, Holly turned her head, just in time to see the WeChat chat window on his screen.

A message from the contact labeled Blake Sinclair had been converted into text, with just two simple words:

[Don’t be scared.]

Just two words, yet they shattered all of Holly’s fear and unease.

The emotions she’d suppressed all night—fear, grievance...

Her eyes grew moist, and she turned to gaze at the gradually blurring night outside the window.

Ulysses Grant nonchalantly typed a few more words and put his phone away without drawing attention.