 Three words. I’ve known them since the day I found out Keith was dead. The Fire Marshal’s report confirms there were three words. They’ve been redacted. I know what they said. I’m done being patient and understanding of how “difficult” this situation is for Grafton Place. My experience over the past two months has been many, many, many times worse. I’ve documented responses from Tamra Youngblut, the apartment manager, and shared them with attorneys, law enforcement, and Burlington, Washington officials. The reactions I’ve received:
All of these can be true at once. I’ve uncovered contradictions in Tamra’s statements—both in what she told me directly and what’s reflected in official records. Multiple systems failed—when Keith was alive and now that he’s dead. A week before he died, a 911 wellness check was conducted after a friend called with concerns. The responding officer did not enter the building and did not follow up the next day—despite being given an address next to Grafton Place. His determination was that Keith was not a resident of Burlington. He was. I don’t blame that officer. I understand hindsight is 20/20. I don’t even know what proper protocol is in situations like this. But the what-ifs don’t go away. Maybe we all need to do more when we see someone struggling. Maybe nothing we do will ever be enough. I don’t have those answers. What I do know is that Keith mattered. He mattered to me, to my family, and to so many others. On Sunday, April 19, I’ll be walking with my twin sister in Keith’s honor at a suicide prevention walk. If you’re reading this, take a moment today to tell someone you love that they matter—that they would be missed. Before it’s too late. If you’ve been following me, you know I’ve only asked for Keith’s Polaroid collection. I know it was important to him that someone who would appreciate it have it. These photos of Polaroids scattered across his apartment may be all I receive. I’ve done everything I can to honor Keith and to make sure that something meaningful to him, and to me, isn’t thrown away. That may still be how this ends. I’m learning to accept that. I shouldn’t have to.  Postscript: My Three Words This ordeal has brought my identical twin sister and me closer together. She’s seen me cry. Scream. Sit at my computer for hours. She’s listened. She’s shared this story in her communities. I would not have gotten through this without her. Thank you, Malinda! My three words. I love you.  The Process ... all my writings since Keith's death.
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 I finally received some of Keith’s property on April Fool’s Day. The information stored on these devices is inaccessible. I don’t know the PIN. The password. The key to get in. I charged all the devices I could. As they powered on, I immediately recognized the wallpaper. A photo of the moon and trees that Keith had shared on Instagram. I attempted to crack the 4-digit PIN and failed. “iPhone Unavailable — Try again in 1 minute.” If I keep trying, will I permanently lock the device? I better stop. “Let it go.” I wanted photographs. I received electronics. And all I can see is a screenshot. I haven’t written anything in three weeks. I’ve been working at it, gathering more pieces of the story I want to tell … the data, some quotes, many images. Fran made the arrangements for Keith’s body. The police sent all the electronic evidence they collected from the scene to our home. Yet I still can’t get an answer as to whether any Polaroids or family photographs remain behind two locked doors at Grafton Place. The coroner accepted Fran is the only living next-of-kin. The detective accepted Fran is the only living next-of-kin. Grandview Management Services has a team and lawyers who’ve determined we don’t deserve to have any information without providing a court order. I educated myself on the law and wrote succinct, direct letters without emotion.
 If I could write directly to Tamra, to the team, and to the lawyers who are withholding information, I would ask them to answer a simple question: Do you have the Polaroids? There are just three possible answers:
I spent countless hours trying to honor Keith: contacting hundreds of family, friends, and colleagues, creating a memorial webpage, writing his obituary, and gathering stories and photographs. I talked with the police detective who explained the scene and the investigation and released the evidence when they were finished. I reached out to a dozen lawyers and spoke at length with two of them trying to find a solution to this logistical problem. I need an answer for closure. A. B. or C. Pick one. Postscript: A Public Record In the days that followed writing this piece, I filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau against Grandview Management Services (GMS), the parent company of Grafton Place Apartments, outlining the lack of communication and their refusal to release even the most basic information about Keith’s belongings, despite the documentation I had already provided. I submitted a formal complaint to the Washington State Attorney General, including all correspondence that led me to this point. I also left a public Google review to document the experience — not out of spite, but as a matter of record. There is no meaningful contact information listed for GMS, and no clear path to resolution. Public documentation felt like the only remaining option. When Grafton Place Apartments told us we’d need a court order and to appear in person just to get information about Keith Connor’s belongings, what they were really saying was: Pay thousands of dollars -- or walk away. How to obtain that order was never clearly explained. Whether it could be done remotely was never meaningfully addressed. The responsibility was simply handed back to me, without guidance, in the middle of grief. I looked into what it would actually take. Obtaining a court order costs at least $400 without legal representation — substantially more with a lawyer. Even if parts of the process could be handled remotely, that path was never offered as a viable option. Instead, the expectation remained: secure the order, and show up in person. Traveling to Burlington, Washington would have meant last-minute cross-country flights, lodging, transportation, and time away from work — all while trying to navigate an unfamiliar legal process in another state, under time pressure, with no clear instructions. We could have spent $2,000–$5,000 traveling across the country and still ended up with nothing. No photos. No answers. Nothing. They didn’t offer a solution. They created a barrier. At some point, the question stops being what is technically required, and becomes what is reasonably possible. There is a difference between a process existing, and a process being accessible. In this case, that difference defined what was possible — and what wasn’t. Somewhere along the way, basic humanity stopped being a consideration.  Postscript, II: HOPE Fran told me weeks ago that I had to stop with the “Keith stuff”, that it was “unhealthy” for me to “obsess on this.” “Let it go.” No choice but action. Today I started planning my 55th birthday party with my identical twin sister. It’s going to be a FUNdraiser for Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation for Childhood Cancer with silly races with friends and family in inflatable costumes. Fran’s other brother, Michael, died in 2003 from a recurrence of childhood leukemia. Keith made multiple donations to our other ALSF fundraisers over the years. This feels like the perfect way to honor him and celebrate while helping others. TWINSRUN.COM Postscript, Part II: Basic Communication Still no response from the April 9th email to Tamra. And the clock starts again. "Follow-Up – Keith Connor Property and Prior Correspondence" sent on April 15, 2026 at 1:24:26 PM EDT  It’s been ~147 hours since my last attempt to get information from Grafton Place. I asked for a response within 3 business days.
No new messages. Do I push? Do I wait? Am I making it worse? Are they ignoring me on purpose? Have I run out of time? The spiral overwhelms the residual giddiness I had from racing 13.1 miles around Washington DC in my traffic cone costume. “Everyone here fell in love with Keith... He would regularly bring down his videos and pictures from around the property and share them with me.” The first real memory I received about Keith was from the person I now hold responsible for withholding information and access to his final belongings. A gut punch. She mentioned Keith sharing “pictures” — most likely the Polaroid collection I’ve begged for over the past 7 weeks. I cannot believe I’m in this situation. I should give up. I can’t give up. And when I’m deepest in the trough of the wave of grief, something unexpected happens. I received a note. And a photograph. “I’m glad to have known Keith, brief though our friendship was. He was smart as heck and so funny. The man walked a tough road. Love you Keith and I’m so sorry.” I immediately thanked this stranger for his message, admitting that it serendipitously arrived when I needed it most. Action calms me. I felt relief when I sent the notarized Small Estate Affidavit to Tamra last week. A final act. I did everything I could. That feeling of ease lasted over the weekend when I knew there was no chance of a reply. But as the clock on the west coast hit 9am on Monday morning, the dread, panic, and pain returned. As the hours ticked by, the intensity increased. I began to plot my next move because doing something would replace the swirling catastrophes. I helped Fran contact the Coroner’s office for their official reports. I never expected a humane response within three hours. No evasiveness. No power games. No disappearing. It is possible to get what I need. Answers. A timeline. A single photo. Thirty-two words. Proof. Keith matters. My efforts matter.  Tomorrow marks four weeks since I learned—in a Facebook message—that my brother-in-law Keith had died. In the weeks since, I’ve written four pieces tracing what happened next when I asked for help: from the distant relative who shared the news, to the apartment manager who salvaged what remained of Keith’s belongings after a small fire and flooding. What started as a request for photographs and Polaroids—items for a memorial—became something more. In searching for images, I found myself writing a eulogy and gathering memories from friends and colleagues. And in the exhaustion of grief, I began to look more closely at my own relationship with Keith’s brother, my husband, Fran. This is the most I’ve written in years. It feels like the beginning of something more: a collection about home, connection, and what we do with loss. To be continued … Google doc of all 4 “essays” My original MFA in creative writing thesis from 2004, entitled, “Transitional Objects.”    There’s a scene in one of my favorite shows, Six Feet Under, when Claire talks about the death of her brother, Nate, that she can only think of the bad times. Sadly, a lot of my memories of Keith revolve around sickness and death — of his brother, then his father, then his mother. For whatever reasons, I didn’t see or reach out to Keith much outside of those tragic circumstances, so when Fran told me he was going to visit Keith in San Francisco in 2024, I sent him a message. What transpired over the next few days online made me feel so connected yet regretful at the same time. We bonded over shared family drama, healthcare malpractice, and our love of Peter Gabriel. I had just seen Peter Gabriel in June 2023 in Dublin with my son, Laoghaire. Shockingly, our seats, labeled Row H, were actually front row. I wrote to Keith that it was one of the best days of my life, especially sharing it with my son. During Fran’s trip to visit Keith, they went as VIP guests to Cirque du Soleil. Similarly he said it was one of the best nights of his life and the photo of him with his brother would be the last one they had together. As soon as I learned that Keith died, I went looking for photos on my phone. I didn’t have many, but I did have photos of Fran and Keith from a pre-wedding celebration at my parents’ house; a group photo from the Catholic blessing of our marriage; a group photo with Fran, Laoghaire and Keith during a visit before Michael’s death; and the only photo with both of my children, Laoghaire and Annalivia; Fran and Keith during a work trip to Seattle (a blurry picture of a novelty photo from the Space Needle); and this final photo of Keith and Fran from 2024 with these huge smiles from two brothers. When I started building the memorial website, I realized how small my collection of photos was. But the ones I did have mattered. They became the beginning of a collage — snapshots of moments we shared. Another one of my favorite memories of Keith is that Instagram post. I sent him a Snorlax Squishmallow on February 20, 2024. When it arrived he wrote: “I never realized I needed a Snorlax until a dear friend sent me one. And I really needed one.” When I saw that such a small gesture had such an impact, I felt such love. What amazed me most after Keith died was how many people reached out. Friends, coworkers, people from gaming communities — people I had never met before — shared stories, photos, and memories that slowly built a picture of a life much bigger than the fragments I had seen. One of the most special things was the photographs. People sent me pictures of Keith and his brothers as kids — laughing, goofing around, just being boys together. I had never seen any of them before. When I told Fran I finally had childhood pictures of him and Keith, his first reaction was: “Those better not end up on the internet.” Sorry Fran, they’re already there. Apparently Keith had a whole life of adventures I knew nothing about. Coachella twice. Photography everywhere. Gaming communities that clearly loved him. It turns out the quiet family member I barely knew had been living a much bigger life than I realized. Looking back at our messages from 2024, one line Keith wrote has stayed with me: “It’s kind of amazing how quickly we reconnected.” And it was. In just a few days we skipped over years of distance and found common ground — music, family, frustration, humor. When we talked about Peter Gabriel — one of the things we instantly bonded over — Keith mentioned how much he loved the album Melt. One line from that record has stayed with me. From the song “Family Snapshot”: “Today is different. Today is not the same. Today, I'll make the action. Take snapshot into the light.” A song about memory. About photographs. About the strange way moments freeze in time. Like many other Americans, I’ve become a fan of The Pitt. Even though I was frustrated by the storyline of the dying father, I was touched by the Hawaiian prayer that Dr. Robby shared with the children struggling to say goodbye to their dad. I have a lot of regrets about my relationship with Keith, mostly that the closest I felt to him was during the flurry of texts in 2024 and now — when I spent hours reaching out to all his friends on Facebook and coworkers on LinkedIn and learned so much I never knew about him and saw amazing photos of him and his brothers when they were just kids. Like many of my friends who read the tributes, the website I created for him made us all say the same thing: “I wish I could have known him.” I regret that I didn’t reach out to him in August 2025 when he lost his job, because that’s something else we had in common. I knew the pain and hopelessness one can feel when part of their identity — their life’s work — is gone. I knew the frustration of wanting love from people you cared about — especially Fran. I was going through my own struggles at the time and I lost touch with Keith again, but luckily I found out that he and my identical twin sister had contact in December 2025 and that gave me some solace and relief. Keith I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. Somewhere between the photos, the stories, and the songs, I found you again. Postscript After I finished writing this, another memory came back to me. Years ago, after one of the many family losses, Fran and I were in the car with Keith driving to the mall. The radio was playing a song that had just come out — “Hey Ya!” by Outkast. When the line came on -- “Shake it like a Polaroid picture.” Keith immediately started talking about it. At the time it was just one of those random conversations you have in a car. Now it feels like one more reminder of how memories work. Snapshots. Moments frozen in time. And the strange way they come back to us long after the moment has passed. Music had been a big part of the Connor brothers’ lives, though they rarely agreed on what counts as a good song. These are the songs that became the soundtrack for my tribute to Keith. Family Snapshot - A Playlist
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