The true crime craze that’s taken over our lives might as well be deemed a cultural force. It’s as if everyone decided, «Forget the fantasy bestseller, forget the latest rom com hit, I want to hear about what really frightens me tonight,» turning our detectives and serial killers into our new knights and damsels. But this isn’t just about the thrill of the chase or the joy of solving a good puzzle. No. This is equal parts armchair psychology and a mass bonding ritual, each of us more appalled yet fascinated than the last. «You won’t believe what happened on [fill in the blank with your favorite true crime podcast] this week,» is the new way to start a dinner conversation. True crime has basically become our generation’s Harlequin romance novels. We decided, «Romance novels? Too passé,» «Give me the heist gone wrong while I sit in my very secure house all alone,» is evidence of a strange world where our darkest tales make for the best comfort, entertainment, and even, a community of aficionados. Who knew being morbid could be just so much fun?