Feb 18th, 2026
Good storytelling is good storytelling, regardless of the genre. And Hunter’s Hidden Camera proves that point with nerve, humor, and momentum. Anthony Auswat delivers a novel that’s a coming-of-age story, a thriller, a dark comedy, and a meditation on shame and secrecy. It’s awkward in the right places, suspenseful when it needs to be, and genuinely funny, without ever forgetting the emotional cost carried by its narrator.
The novel is told through the voice of Hunter, an anxious, closeted 18-year-old living in the shadow of his older brother Nash. From the opening chapters, Auswat establishes a risky intimacy with the reader. Hunter’s internal monologue is raw, self-aware, and often brutal in its honesty, especially when it comes to desire, fear, and self-loathing. These early scenes are deliberately uncomfortable, but they’re also crucial: they ground the story in character before the plot accelerates into chaos.
What works especially well is the tonal balance. Auswat doesn’t shy away from humiliation or embarrassment: Hunter hiding under his brother’s bed, overhearing sex, or fumbling through a disastrous encounter with his girlfriend Emma. Instead, he frames these moments with sharp comedic timing. Later, that same instinct pays off in one of the novel’s funniest scenes, when a tossed T-shirt lands squarely on Oscar’s arm during a dorm-room break-in. It’s an absurd, laugh-out-loud funny scene, and it’s perfectly placed to release tension just before the stakes rise again.
The moral engine of the novel kicks in with Hunter’s decision to secretly film his brother to fund his future. This choice is reprehensible, and the book never lets him off the hook for it. Yet Auswat makes Hunter’s logic disturbingly understandable: financial desperation, parental neglect, and a sense of invisibility push him toward increasingly reckless decisions.
Once the story tips into full thriller territory, with murder, criminal organizations, and escalating violence, the pacing becomes breathless. Auswat has a real talent for cliffhanger endings, making the book difficult to put down.
That said, the novel occasionally suffers from its own ambition. By continually raising the stakes, some twists begin to feel engineered rather than organic. This is the risk of a narrative that must always “top” itself at the end of every chapter: eventually, the surprise curve flattens.
Still, even when the plot veers toward the contrived, the characters remain compelling. Oscar, in particular, stands out as the emotional core of the book. His friendship with Hunter feels authentic, and the pain of his temporary disappearance from Hunter’s life hits harder than many of the novel’s more violent moments. In a story full of danger and spectacle, it’s the loss of this friendship that resonates most deeply.
Auswat also deserves credit for what he leaves out. Hunter’s parents remain offstage throughout the novel, an absence that speaks volumes about neglect and emotional distance. This narrative choice reinforces Hunter’s isolation and allows chosen family (Patricia and Oscar) to carry the story’s moral weight instead. Patricia’s role, in particular, offers a rare note of tenderness and affirmation, especially in her acknowledgment of Hunter’s sexuality.
By the final chapters, Hunter’s Hidden Camera shifts away from adrenaline and toward reflection. Therapy sessions, reconciliation, and tentative self-acceptance take the place of chase scenes and conspiracies. The ending doesn’t suggest trauma disappears, but it opens the door to growth, honesty, and love.
Hunter’s Hidden Camera is flawed, fearless, and wildly entertaining, a page-turner with a beating heart. It’s also a reminder that sometimes the most dangerous thing isn’t what’s hidden on camera, but what we’re afraid to admit about ourselves.
Buy the book on Amazon.