FBI Drops Protection for Trans Partner After Charlie Kirk Killing: Backlash Grows

Paul Riverbank, 1/16/2026FBI ends protection for trans partner after Charlie Kirk killing, as scrutiny and backlash grow.

September 10, 2025, did more than make news: it pulled the rug out for many who felt security in their routines. Utah Valley University, not a place where gunshots were ever expected, is now linked to the name Charlie Kirk—a conservative firebrand, co-founder of Turning Point USA—who, by all accounts, was gunned down in a moment of violence no one saw coming. Police acted quickly. Tyler Robinson, 22, was picked up and charged with what the law tersely calls “aggravated murder,” among a string of other accusations.

The aftermath hit everyone close to Robinson—including Lance Twiggs, his partner. Word spread fast in the neighborhood: one afternoon, an armored SUV, agents in FBI windbreakers. The scene was more than local gossip—Twiggs and his family were moved under FBI watch not for anything they had done, but because the deluge of threats online was impossible to ignore. “For weeks,” a relative recounted, “it felt like we couldn’t breathe normally.” But protection can’t last forever; sometime this fall, according to several sources, that watch was quietly lifted. No official explanation. At last check, Twiggs is living with family, car moved, life in limbo but no longer in hiding.

Unlike his partner, Lance hasn’t been charged with a crime. Not that this has shielded him from scrutiny. Friends remember him as careful, perhaps even cautious—a student with impeccable grades who worked long shifts, rarely joining others after dark. “He cared for people, always the one worrying about someone’s ride home,” said Braylon Nielsen, a friend from school. Still, beneath the praise, family tensions sometimes flared: years of estrangement, arguments over politics and faith, and addiction struggled with, not always won.

In the early days after Kirk’s death, rumors swirled about Lance’s whereabouts—vanished, said some, probably spirited away to a remote “safe space.” For weeks, that battered sedan sat untouched outside the townhouse, a magnet for speculation. Come November, even the car disappeared, landing at his parents’ house—a detail that said as much as any police statement.

Piecing together what actually happened meant sifting through not just events but conversations. Investigators released a trove of text messages: “I had the opportunity to take out Charlie Kirk, and I’m going to take it,” Robinson wrote after the shooting. Twiggs’s answer wavered between disbelief and anxiety—“You weren’t the one who did it right????” she messaged back. When Robinson confessed, according to documents, with a blunt “I am, I’m sorry,” the text chain went silent.

Police brought Twiggs in soon after—not a voluntary walk-in, a relative emphasized, but a summons. “He gave them what they needed, but wasn’t the type to rush in himself,” the family member put it. “He didn’t offer up more than they asked.” No evidence has made its way into the public sphere tying Twiggs to the crime.

With Robinson awaiting trial on multiple high-profile charges—including obstruction and witness tampering, alongside the murder accusation—attention has slowly drifted from St. George back to courts and commentary. Inside Twiggs’s family, once frayed relationships are tentatively stitching back together. Money moves across Venmo screens for gas or medication; texts come now with warmth, not blame.

Among relatives, the consensus is clear. “Yes, they’ve got the right guy,” one family member said without hesitation, when asked if Robinson was truly responsible.

Today, the small townhouse is quiet, attention having shifted elsewhere. Lance Twiggs’s story winds on—transgender, newly out of FBI protection, standing at the nexus of private forgiveness and public scrutiny. The national argument over violence, politics, identity, and belonging does not end here, but Twiggs, once thrust into the middle, remains for now a symbol of how the personal and political can collide—leaving indelible marks on families and communities far from the halls of power.

The street where Lance Twiggs once lived with Tyler Robinson has changed. St. George, a town more used to desert quiet than headlines, isn’t quite itself—mail collecting at their old townhouse, porch light flickering at odd hours, and neighbors stepping a bit more softly after what happened on that jarring September Tuesday.September 10, 2025, did more than make news: it pulled the rug out for many who felt security in their routines. Utah Valley University, not a place where gunshots were ever expected, is now linked to the name Charlie Kirk—a conservative firebrand, co-founder of Turning Point USA—who, by all accounts, was gunned down in a moment of violence no one saw coming. Police acted quickly. Tyler Robinson, 22, was picked up and charged with what the law tersely calls “aggravated murder,” among a string of other accusations.The aftermath hit everyone close to Robinson—including Lance Twiggs, his partner. Word spread fast in the neighborhood: one afternoon, an armored SUV, agents in FBI windbreakers. The scene was more than local gossip—Twiggs and his family were moved under FBI watch not for anything they had done, but because the deluge of threats online was impossible to ignore. “For weeks,” a relative recounted, “it felt like we couldn’t breathe normally.” But protection can’t last forever; sometime this fall, according to several sources, that watch was quietly lifted. No official explanation. At last check, Twiggs is living with family, car moved, life in limbo but no longer in hiding.Unlike his partner, Lance hasn’t been charged with a crime. Not that this has shielded him from scrutiny. Friends remember him as careful, perhaps even cautious—a student with impeccable grades who worked long shifts, rarely joining others after dark. “He cared for people, always the one worrying about someone’s ride home,” said Braylon Nielsen, a friend from school. Still, beneath the praise, family tensions sometimes flared: years of estrangement, arguments over politics and faith, and addiction struggled with, not always won.In the early days after Kirk’s death, rumors swirled about Lance’s whereabouts—vanished, said some, probably spirited away to a remote “safe space.” For weeks, that battered sedan sat untouched outside the townhouse, a magnet for speculation. Come November, even the car disappeared, landing at his parents’ house—a detail that said as much as any police statement.Piecing together what actually happened meant sifting through not just events but conversations. Investigators released a trove of text messages: “I had the opportunity to take out Charlie Kirk, and I’m going to take it,” Robinson wrote after the shooting. Twiggs’s answer wavered between disbelief and anxiety—“You weren’t the one who did it right????” she messaged back. When Robinson confessed, according to documents, with a blunt “I am, I’m sorry,” the text chain went silent.Police brought Twiggs in soon after—not a voluntary walk-in, a relative emphasized, but a summons. “He gave them what they needed, but wasn’t the type to rush in himself,” the family member put it. “He didn’t offer up more than they asked.” No evidence has made its way into the public sphere tying Twiggs to the crime.With Robinson awaiting trial on multiple high-profile charges—including obstruction and witness tampering, alongside the murder accusation—attention has slowly drifted from St. George back to courts and commentary. Inside Twiggs’s family, once frayed relationships are tentatively stitching back together. Money moves across Venmo screens for gas or medication; texts come now with warmth, not blame.Among relatives, the consensus is clear. “Yes, they’ve got the right guy,” one family member said without hesitation, when asked if Robinson was truly responsible.Today, the small townhouse is quiet, attention having shifted elsewhere. Lance Twiggs’s story winds on—transgender, newly out of FBI protection, standing at the nexus of private forgiveness and public scrutiny. The national argument over violence, politics, identity, and belonging does not end here, but Twiggs, once thrust into the middle, remains for now a symbol of how the personal and political can collide—leaving indelible marks on families and communities far from the halls of power.