 Photo sent from Andy Zabel of Keith Connor's personal belongings At 1:50 a.m. EDT on Wednesday, April 29, Grafton Place’s lawyer sent the first and only photo I have received after more than two months of asking whether Keith’s sentimental belongings had been saved. Keith Connor died on Monday, February 23. Now this appears to be what will be released to us. Maybe. After everything that has happened, I do not trust that even this is certain. At 7:24:23 a.m. EDT that same morning, I sent Grafton Place’s lawyer a camera collage I had assembled.  Photo sent to Andy Zabel of cameras that were in Keith's apartment after his death It shows cameras I found in the Fire Marshal’s Report. I had spent hours going through more than 200 photos of Keith’s apartment. It wasn’t easy. The images of the scene, the home where Keith died, were unsettling and disturbing. I cropped out the parts that made me gasp, that made me cry. I was looking for clues. Looking for what might have been saved. Looking for what was probably lost. There were cameras in the apartment. There were photographs. There were personal items that mattered. Were memory cards recovered? Were family photos discarded? Were other irreplaceable items thrown away without documentation? I may never know. And after all of this, I am still waiting to learn what they expect us to pay to have the items shown in their photo shipped home. It has been more than two months since Keith died. Why is there still another delay? At this point, it would almost be comical if it were not so cruel. One of my oldest friends made me laugh out loud with her blunt summary: "It appears they think this is rocket science. Put stuff in a box. Mail it." But the word “comical” has another meaning in my family now. My twin sister, Malinda, is tormented by the last text she received from Keith. "Maybe I'll die a comical wheelchair death." He had texted her that the brakes on his wheelchair had broken and he didn’t know how to get a new one. "Hopefully the NP can help next week." My sister never found out if he got the help he needed. Her last text to him: "Be careful please 🙏" There was no reply. 
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 I’ve been ignored — by my husband, by Tamra Youngblut at Grafton Place Apartments, and now by Andy Zabel at Houlihan Law, her legal representative. It feels like punishment. I keep trying to make it mean I deserve it. I never replied to the last text message Keith Connor sent me. “I leave tomorrow wish me luck” I didn’t wish him luck. I honestly don’t even know if I saw that message in real time. There are other texts he sent me—very disturbing ones—telling me to share an angry message with his brother, my husband. I can’t remember if I saw those in real time either. I know I saw them at some point and decided I couldn’t engage. I didn’t want to disobey my husband, who told me not to get involved with his brother. I didn’t want to get pulled into the drama of someone who was suffering from what appeared to be a psychotic break. I had done that before in 2017–2018 with a friend, and it didn’t end well. I remembered the late-night messages, the accusations, the feeling that every reply only pulled me deeper into a reality I could not fix. I’m trying to tell my husband how much I’ve been suffering. He tells me I’m bringing this on myself by pursuing the quest to retrieve Keith’s photographs. He wanted me to give up when Tamra Youngblut hung up on me. I am trying to tell my husband that I am Keith. I want a relationship with him that I cannot have, just like Keith. Closeness. Trust. Feeling supported. He says I want to be a victim, but I’m not. “Now that Keith’s dead, he’s a saint.” My identical twin sister responded to Keith’s final text message. She had the last word. I’m envious. I confess I have not had the bandwidth to ask my sister how she’s doing through all this. We have a unique relationship with a lot of baggage, and it’s been strained for the years she’s been living in my basement. My husband would tell me to be nice to my sister. I would tell him to be nice to his brother. An ongoing loop. Keith was not a saint. Keith was not the devil. He was complicated and complex, like most of us are. He had serious physical health issues. He had severe mental health struggles that were undisclosed to many in his life. He also had friends who heard about his suicidal ideations. Some people walked away because they couldn’t watch him destroy himself. Some people tried everything they could to help him. Some people had happy memories from years and years ago. Some stayed. Some stepped away. Some were pushed away. Keith worried about how he would be remembered. We probably all do, to some extent, but hearing Keith's friend say that to me last week brought me to tears. I’ve done so much trying to make sure Keith is not forgotten and that people have a space to share their photos and memories for others to find someday. I’ve been listening to Sinéad O’Connor’s song “Take Me to Church” on repeat for days now. “I've done so many bad things, it hurts” I’ve done things that hurt the people I love... the people who love me. I’ve done things that hurt myself, too. It’s a loop of regret and anger and grief. I noticed Keith’s profile picture changed to a default icon. “That’s not good,” I thought. I didn’t do anything. I got distracted with my own problems. I’ve screamed and cried to my husband, to a few friends, but mostly to my twin. I haven’t asked her how she’s doing yet. It feels like I’m failing her. I tell her I promise we can work on our relationship just as soon as we get closure with Grafton Place. I can’t deal with anything else difficult until that’s settled. I had a friend, Nicole Paul, who was murdered when I was in grad school. This was a year before I met my husband. I was having problems with some other guy that I was dumping on her via email. We had plans to get together that weekend, but we never saw each other. The last message I got from her: “Cheer up girlfriend. It’s the weekend!” At her memorial service, I think I was the first friend to get up and speak. I shared that story of her last email to me. Another friend shared a story about how they had a huge fight, a falling out. She regretted that was how things ended, but comforted herself by saying that our dead friend only got that angry with people she really cared about. Did I have closure with Nicole? I had that message from her. I had plans with her. I have a lot of relationships to repair. I need to start with my twin sister. I’ve been trying to spend more time with her after months of scheduling our comings and goings to avoid seeing each other. That sounds so awful to admit. We went to karaoke for the first time together last week. I sang “Mercy Street” by Peter Gabriel and my twin sang “Free to Decide” by the Cranberries. This morning, I asked my twin to go for a walk to get coffee before she leaves for a trip to Philadelphia. The forecast said rain. Instead, there was a beautiful, colorful sky.  The Process ... all of my writings since Keith's death.
 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 of my writings since Keith's death.
 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. The Process ... all of my writings since Keith's death.
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