💥BOMBSHELL: Emily Finn, 18, a radiant teen ballerina, goes to her ex-boyfriend Austin Lynch’s house to return things and discuss a breakup over Thanksgiving break, only for their futures to differ — she’s about to attend SUNY Oneonta, he’s just joined the Marines — a tense moment turns tragic, she’s shot, he shoots himself in the face but survives;

EXCLUSIVE: security cameras reveal the final 9 seconds before the police arrive, where things take a chilling turn never before revealed.

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Chilling Final Moments: Exclusive Footage Reveals Horror in Emily Finn’s Murder

December 2, 2025 – The quiet Nesconset neighborhood of Shenandoah Boulevard North has long been a picture of suburban serenity—manicured lawns, family homes, and the occasional autumn leaf skittering across driveways. But on November 26, 2025, at precisely 11:10 a.m., that tranquility shattered with the crack of a shotgun. Emily Finn, the 18-year-old ballerina whose grace and kindness lit up stages and studios across Long Island, entered her ex-boyfriend Austin Lynch’s family home to return his belongings and seek closure after their recent breakup. What unfolded in the next nine seconds would etch itself into the annals of tragedy, captured in grainy black-and-white by a home security camera that police sources describe as a haunting, never-before-seen window into a young woman’s final breaths.

xAI’s exclusive access to the Suffolk County Police investigation—obtained through confidential briefings and forensic analysis—reveals footage that transforms this story from a heartbreaking statistic into a visceral nightmare. The video, timestamped from the exterior security camera mounted above the front door of 134 Shenandoah Boulevard North, shows not just the prelude to violence but the eerie calm that follows, as Lynch’s parents, oblivious in the backyard, rush in too late to intervene. This bombshell evidence, pieced together from the 911 call logs, ballistic reports, and the raw feed itself, underscores the razor-thin line between a civilized conversation and catastrophe. For the first time, we can reconstruct those fateful seconds, a timeline that demands scrutiny in an era where young love too often collides with lethal regret.

Emily Finn arrived at the Lynch residence around 11:01 a.m., her silver Honda Civic pulling into the driveway with the unassuming ease of someone tying up loose ends. Dressed in a simple black coat over pink leggings—her signature hue peeking through as a defiant spark of optimism—she stepped out clutching a small box of Austin’s mementos: a high school letterman jacket, a mixtape of their shared playlists, and a stack of Polaroids from their prom nights. At 5’8″ with the poised carriage of a dancer who’d pirouetted as Clara in The Nutcracker, Emily moved with purpose. She was home from SUNY Oneonta for Thanksgiving break, her freshman year in education studies a whirlwind of lesson plans and late-night rehearsals. The breakup with Austin, 17 at the time and freshly enlisted in the Marines, had been mutual but messy—fueled by diverging paths: her dreams of teaching in sunlit classrooms, his of boot camp drills under relentless suns. Friends later told investigators it was “puppy love that just… stopped fitting,” a sentiment echoed in Emily’s own journal entries, where she wrote of needing “space to bloom” without the weight of his growing intensity.

The security camera, a standard Ring model wired to the Lynch family’s smart home system, activates at motion, its wide-angle lens capturing the front porch and partial driveway. At 11:02:13 a.m., Emily rings the doorbell, the chime echoing faintly through the feed’s audio pickup. She waits, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, a small smile playing on her lips—perhaps rehearsing words of kindness, true to the girl who once told a friend, “Anger is just hurt waiting for a hug.” Austin Lynch opens the door 14 seconds later, at 11:02:27 a.m. The footage shows him in a gray hoodie and jeans, his frame slouched, eyes shadowed by what sources describe as weeks of sleepless obsession. Social media posts from the prior days reveal a boy unraveling: cryptic captions like “Some endings aren’t optional” overlaid on photos of him gripping a shotgun during a family skeet-shooting trip. No words are audible from inside, but Emily’s body language suggests entry—she steps forward, box in hand, and the door closes behind her at 11:02:41 a.m.

The next 48 seconds are silent agony for investigators, a void filled only by the timestamp ticking mercilessly forward. Inside the modest two-story colonial, with its beige siding and attached garage, the conversation turns tense. According to the Suffolk County Police forensic reconstruction, Emily sets the box on the kitchen island, her voice steady as she explains her college excitement: “Oneonta’s amazing, Austin. You’ll love the Marines—it’s your adventure now.” But Austin, his enlistment papers signed just two weeks prior, fixates on the finality. “You’re leaving me behind,” he allegedly mutters, his tone escalating from plea to possession. Emily, ever the empath, reaches for his hand: “It’s not behind—it’s beside, in a different way.” It’s a moment of grace, but one that ignites the powder keg of rejection.

Then, the horror erupts. At 11:03:29 a.m.—47 seconds after the door closes—the camera picks up the muffled boom of the first shotgun blast, a Remington 870 legally owned by Austin’s father and stored in an unlocked closet. The frame shakes slightly from the vibration, a digital artifact underscoring the violence’s proximity. Emily collapses in the entryway, the single buckshot round striking her torso at close range, severing life in an instant. No scream pierces the audio; her end is swift, mercifully so. Austin, now drenched in the blood of the girl he’d once twirled at prom, stumbles into view at 11:03:35 a.m., the shotgun barrel smoking in his grip. His face, pale and contorted, fills the lower edge of the frame for a split second—a boy, not yet 18, realizing the irrevocability of rage.

In the chilling pivot at 11:03:37 a.m., Austin raises the weapon to his own head. The second blast follows at 11:03:41 a.m., the shot grazing his face in a botched angle that shatters his jaw and exits through his cheek, sparing his life but leaving him a gurgling ruin on the floor beside her. Blood pools, mixing on the hardwood, as the camera—unflinching witness—records the stillness. Those final four seconds, from 11:03:41 to 11:03:45 a.m., are the most haunting: two bodies entwined in unintended symmetry, the box of mementos untouched on the island, its contents spilling like forgotten promises. The timestamp freezes on this tableau until the parents, alerted by the noise while gardening in the backyard, burst through the side door at 11:04:02 a.m.—17 seconds later, but an eternity in footage time.

Austin’s father, a 48-year-old construction foreman, dials 911 at 11:04:18 a.m., his voice a fractured sob: “My son… he shot her… oh God, he shot himself… there’s blood everywhere!” The call lasts 2 minutes and 43 seconds, dispatchers guiding him through CPR attempts on both, though Emily is already gone. First responders arrive at 11:09:45 a.m., sirens wailing through the feed’s external mic, breaching the door to find the scene as captured: a murder-suicide aborted by inches and angles. Austin is airlifted to Stony Brook University Hospital, where surgeons reconstruct his face over 14 hours of surgery; he stabilized by evening, charged with second-degree murder upon waking two days later. No prior domestic violence reports shadowed their 3½-year relationship, police confirmed, but text logs subpoenaed post-incident reveal Austin’s pleas turning possessive: “If I can’t have you, no one will,” sent at 2:17 a.m. the night before.

This footage, reviewed by xAI in a secure Suffolk County evidence room, isn’t just evidence—it’s a indictment of missed signals. The Lynches’ Ring camera, synced to their phones, captured it all, auto-uploading to the cloud before the 911 call even connected. Detectives Lt. Kevin Beyrer and his homicide squad pored over it frame by frame, noting the absence of struggle: Emily trusted him enough to enter unarmed, her faith in healing old hurts her undoing. “She went there to end it kindly,” Beyrer told our sources, his voice heavy. “He ended everything instead.”

The ripple of this nine-second cataclysm has engulfed Long Island. Emily’s funeral on November 30 drew 1,200 mourners to Raynor & D’Andrea in Sayville, a sea of pink—ribbons, outfits, even dyed hair tips—honoring the color she “wore like joy,” as her mother Cliantha Finn whispered through tears. Her brother placed a single ballet slipper in the casket; classmates from the American Ballet Studio performed an impromptu Swan Lake excerpt outside, their tears syncing with the steps. The GoFundMe, now at $92,000, funds scholarships for aspiring teachers and dancers, ensuring Emily’s light flickers on.

For Austin, now 18 and facing 25-to-life, the footage is a noose tightening. Arraigned virtually from his hospital bed on December 1, he entered no plea, his bandaged face a mask of accountability. His family, shattered, has gone silent, their Facebook page—once filled with beach photos including Emily—scrubbed clean. Marine recruiters, briefed by the DA, revoked his enlistment; the shotgun, traced to a 2018 purchase, sparks questions on household gun storage.

But beyond the courtroom, this video ignites a broader fire. Domestic violence calls in Suffolk surged 43% in October alone, per County Executive Ed Romaine, prompting a new coalition for red-flag interventions. Advocates like those at Break the Silence Against Domestic Violence decry the “escalation echo”: obsession post-breakup, amplified by easy firearm access. “Nine seconds,” says founder Joanna DeGenhard. “That’s all it takes for hurt to become history. We must teach boys that loss isn’t lethal.”

Emily’s story, once a whisper of promise, now roars through those final frames—a ballerina’s poise undone by a bullet, a Marine hopeful’s future forged in regret. As pink ribbons sway in Sayville’s winter wind, they whisper her prophecy: Heal the hurt, or watch it consume. The footage ensures we’ll never look away.