Hunter's Hidden Camera

Hunter’s Hidden Camera really grabs your attention from the start and keeps you hooked. Anthony Auswat has written a story that feels raw and brave, but also surprisingly gentle. It follows a queer teen coming into his own, wrapped inside a thriller that isn’t afraid to take risks.

The story belongs to Hunter: eighteen, in conservative Point Liberty, living in his brother Nash’s shadow and hiding that he’s gay from his Irish Catholic family, his girlfriend Emma, and almost everyone else. When he starts secretly filming Nash and monetizing the footage online, what begins as a twisted way to pay for college spirals once Nash’s real life—drugs, a Russian crime boss—crashes in. Best friend Oscar gets pulled into the chaos, and the book becomes as much about saving each other as it is about Hunter finally facing who he is. I won’t spoil the end, but the last stretch hit me harder than I expected—the kind of ending that sticks with you for a bit. Messy, morally complicated, and human.

Hunter’s voice is the book’s strongest asset: funny, self-aware, painfully honest about desire, shame, and performing straightness. Oscar, Emma, cousin Patricia, and the chosen family around Jo feel real, not props. The prose is direct; the content warnings (sex, violence, suicidal ideation) are earned. The thriller plot sometimes stretches credulity, and the mix of high school drama and organized crime won’t be for everyone—but the emotional core holds. The way Auswat handles identity without forcing labels, and the “take it slow” ending between Hunter and Oscar, landed for me with genuine warmth after so much darkness.

It’s a sharp, personal novel about the cost of hiding and the relief of being seen. If you’re okay with dark material and want a queer story that goes to uncomfortable places and still finds hope, I’d say this one’s worth your time.