Chapter 1: Blood on the Seventh Floor

One summer afternoon, blood was spilled in a place meant for dreams—turning Savannah College of the Arts into the scene of a nightmare.

Among the victims were students, professors, family members, and even a well-known performing artist.

The Savannah College of the Arts is a nationally renowned center for creativity, nurturing countless filmmakers and artists celebrated across the U.S. and abroad.

From the moment you set foot on its oak-lined avenues—where Spanish moss drapes the branches like something out of a movie set—there’s an unmistakable energy in the air. Murals burst with color, laughter spills from open studio windows, and the hum of late-night coffee shops brims with sketchbooks and laptops. This is a campus that feels both timeless and electric with possibility.

On the east side of campus, just north of the Savannah Film Studio, sits the faculty apartment complex.

It’s one of those mid-century towers that looks out over the marsh, boxy and plain from the outside but alive inside with the low buzz of faculty life—kids clattering in soccer cleats, half-empty pizza boxes tossed down the chute, the faint tap of jazz piano from somewhere above. Sometimes the smell of fried shrimp from the diner across the street drifts in, mingling with the salty marsh air. At night, you can stand on the balcony and listen to trains in the distance.

On July 6, 1994, just after 4:00 p.m., a horrifying incident shattered the lazy peace of a Georgia summer afternoon in one of these high-rise apartments.

The day was a classic Savannah scorcher, thick with humidity and the endless buzz of cicadas. But that afternoon, the air turned heavy with dread—a darkness that would haunt the building for years.

Jenna, daughter of the well-known actor Patrick Lowell, returned home from school, backpack slung over her shoulder, and stepped into the hallway of her building.

Jenna’s sneakers squeaked on the cool linoleum as she entered, the familiar musty smell of old carpet in her nose. At just ten, she already moved with a kind of unselfconscious confidence—a girl used to movie sets and red carpets, trailing behind her parents on location shoots from Atlanta to L.A. Her hair was still damp from P.E., her mind half on the ice cream sandwich she planned to sneak from the freezer.

But as she stepped out of the elevator on the seventh floor, something felt wrong.

The hallway, usually alive with Mrs. Washington’s TV and the distant tinkle of piano keys, was swallowed in silence. Jenna stopped, a shiver crawling up her arms despite the heat.

The security door, always shut tight, stood wide open.

That never happened. Jenna’s mom was a stickler for safety—double-checking locks, even for a quick trip to the lobby. Now the door gaped like a mouth, and Jenna’s stomach knotted.

As she neared her own apartment, Jenna’s unease deepened.

She crept forward, gripping her backpack strap, eyes darting up and down the corridor. Only her own shallow breathing and the whir of the vending machine at the end of the hall broke the hush.

Not only was the security door ajar, but the inner wooden door was cracked open too.

She’d never seen both doors open at once. Maybe her mom was expecting someone? Maybe a neighbor had stopped by? Her thoughts spun dizzyingly, none of them good.

What on earth had happened?

A dozen scenarios flashed through Jenna’s mind—none comforting. She paused at the threshold, peering into the dark slit of the doorway, straining for any sign of life inside.

Normally, both doors would be locked. Now, there was a faint metallic scent—like blood—lingering in the air.

Jenna wrinkled her nose. It reminded her of the time she’d scraped her knee at summer camp—only this was heavier, sicklier. She swallowed, wishing her dad was home, or that she’d brought the dog, or that she’d taken the long way with her friend Aisha like usual.

Though only ten, Jenna had seen a lot of the world thanks to her celebrity parents, and she was usually brave.

The world had taught Jenna to keep her wits—how to smile for cameras, talk to grown-ups, walk through crowds without getting lost. But this was different. Fear gnawed at her stomach. She wiped her palms on her shorts, squared her shoulders, and remembered what her dad always said: “If you’re scared, do it anyway.”

She gently pushed the wooden door open and stepped inside. The scene that met her left her frozen in place.

The living room was stifling, curtains drawn against the sun. Jenna’s eyes landed on her mother, Susan Harper, lying on her side on the carpet. For a heartbeat, Jenna’s mind grasped for normalcy—maybe Mom had fainted, or was just resting after rehearsal? But the thick silence pressed in, heavy and unnatural.

Susan Harper lay on her side in the living room, back to the door.

Sunlight slanted through the curtains, painting a golden stripe across the coffee table. Susan’s hair spilled over her shoulder, one arm stretched awkwardly toward the TV remote. Jenna’s mind scrambled to make sense of it—she’d seen her mom in a thousand poses, but never like this.

Susan was a dancer, often practicing splits and backbends at home. Jenna’s first thought was: Is Mom practicing her dance moves?

Her gaze flicked to her mom’s legs—long and graceful, even now. It wasn’t unusual to find Susan stretching in front of the TV, humming along to old jazz. For a split second, Jenna almost laughed at herself for worrying.

But as she drew closer, dread iced Jenna’s spine.

The air was wrong—too still, too silent. Jenna’s sneakers clung to the carpet, and a cold, prickling energy seemed to rise from the floor. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears.

Why would Mom be practicing in her everyday clothes? And why was it so eerily quiet?

Jenna noticed her mom’s t-shirt and jeans, not her usual leotard. The house, normally full of music or the squeak of dance shoes, was dead quiet. Not even the fridge was humming.

Oh no…

A cold wave of realization crashed over her. She stepped forward, knees trembling.

Jenna suddenly saw the large pool of blood beneath her mother, more blood soaking through her abdomen, staining her clothes and pants bright red.

The sight twisted Jenna’s stomach. It was worse than any scrape or nosebleed—this was a nightmare. For a moment, everything blurred, the world narrowing to the shock of crimson on pale carpet.

Jenna’s nerves stretched to the breaking point. She rushed to her mother’s side and shook her.

"Mom? Mom, please—get up! Please, Mom, say something!"

Her voice cracked, desperate and thin. She shook Susan’s shoulder, praying for a groan, a twitch—anything. She’d never seen her mother so terribly still.

But Susan Harper didn’t move. In the sweltering summer heat, her body was icy cold.

Jenna jerked back, skin prickling with goosebumps. The A/C hummed, but her mom’s coldness was terrifying. Jenna’s mind tried to rewind, to make this all a mistake. Maybe if she blinked hard enough, her mom would be standing, scolding her for tracking dirt on the carpet.

At that moment, Jenna was overwhelmed with terror. What should she do?

Her throat tightened, panic pounding in her chest. She wanted to run, to scream, to make it all go away—but she knew she had to act. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe, to remember what her dad always said: stay calm, call for help.

Her father, Patrick Lowell, was away filming, so she had to call him right away.

She darted toward the kitchen, dodging an upturned dining chair, mind racing with her dad’s number, fingers fumbling for the phone. Her hands shook so hard she almost knocked the receiver off the wall.

As Jenna hurried toward the phone, her foot struck something with a loud metallic clang.

She jumped back, heart hammering. The sound echoed through the empty apartment, sharp and jarring.

She looked down and saw a bloodstained kitchen knife.

The knife lay half-hidden beneath the rug, its blade gleaming through a thick coat of blood. Jenna stared at it, mind spinning with terror and confusion.

Thick, sticky blood smeared her sandals.

She felt the warm, viscous ooze seep into her socks, and a wave of nausea swept over her. The metallic, sickly smell made her eyes water.

For a split second, she remembered her dad’s voice—never touch the evidence. But the knife felt like it was burning her hand, and before she knew it, she’d hurled it away.

At that very moment, Mr. Hawkins, the recycling collector for the college, was pedaling his battered pickup truck past the building.

Mr. Hawkins, a retired Marine with a battered Braves cap glued to his head, was making his usual rounds. Rain or shine, he never missed a day. Everyone knew to save their cans for him.

The knife—over half a foot long—whistled past his nose and stabbed into the ground nearby.

He jerked the wheel, swerving to a stop, the truck’s rusty brakes squealing. For a second, he thought someone had dropped a toolbox from a window, but the sharp thunk and glint of steel told him otherwise.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Mr. Hawkins walked over and realized what had just fallen.

It was a kitchen knife—big, heavy, with a dark wooden handle and a blade slicked red. He bent down slowly, eyeing the windows above with suspicion.

It really was a knife—and it was covered in blood.

Mr. Hawkins’ jaw tightened. He’d seen trouble in his day, but this was something else. He scanned the windows above, heart thudding.

"What in the world—who the hell’s tossing knives out their window? You tryin’ to take my head off? Show yourself!"

His shout echoed across the courtyard, drawing neighbors onto balconies, coffee mugs and phones in hand. Mrs. Tran on the third floor peered out from behind her blinds, and a couple of undergrads snapped photos, already texting friends.

His shouting drew all the neighbors out to see what was happening.

Within seconds, the usually quiet complex buzzed with murmurs and whispers, doors slamming, people craning to see. Someone across the street called 911.

Jenna poked her head out the seventh-floor window and called down timidly:

Her voice trembled, barely a whisper, but in the stunned hush, it carried.

"Sir, I’m sorry—my mom was stabbed with a knife…"

Her words hung in the humid air, sharp as the blade itself, and suddenly, the whole world seemed to stop.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Jenna clung to the windowsill, watching the world tilt, certain nothing would ever be normal again.