It's tempting to call 'Lying in
the deep' true crime because it wears so many of those gritty details like a uniform: forensics, interrogation scenes, and the kind of procedural rhythm that makes your spine tingle. But no, I don't classify it as true crime in the strict sense. True crime is nonfiction—think '
In Cold Blood'—an account of real events, people, and investigations presented with reporting and sources. 'Lying in the Deep' is written as a
novel: characters, dialogue, and scenes are shaped by imagination and narrative
drive rather than published records.
What makes this book feel true-crime-adjacent is the author's craft. They borrow the language of investigation, sprinkle in realistic technology and police routines, and keep the pacing tight so the story
reads like a case file come to life. There's also the emotional realism: grief, obsession, guilt—that stuff sells the illusion of factuality, but it's still fiction.
I love books that blur the line between reportage and imagination, and 'Lying in the Deep' does that deliciously. I finished it thinking of both true-crime documentaries and dark thrillers, which is exactly the kind of hybrid that keeps me
Turning pages late into the night.