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'Stylish and lyrical in its prose and deeply sensitive in its characterisation' GUARDIAN 'Clever and engrossing' MAIL ON SUNDAY 'McFarlane's imaginative and tonal range is astonishing . . . a superb writer' SYDNEY MORNING HERALD, Books of the Year 'A masterclass' TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT 'McFarlane is a master at just about everything: dialogue, setting, comic timing' LOS ANGELES TIMES In 1998, an apparently ordinary Australian man is arrested and charged for a series of brutal murders. The news shocks the nation, bringing both horror and resolution to the victims' families, but its impact travels even further: into the past, as the murders rewrite personal histories, and into the future, as true crime podcasts and biopics tell the story of the crimes. From the killer's childhood town to Texas, Rome and beyond, from the mid-twentieth century to the near-future, Highway Thirteen asks how do communities make sense of such atrocities? How does the mourning of families sit alongside the public fascination with terrible crimes? And can we tell true crime stories without centring the killers?
'Stylish and lyrical in its prose and deeply sensitive in its characterisation'
GUARDIAN
'Clever and engrossing'
MAIL ON SUNDAY
'McFarlane's imaginative and tonal range is astonishing . . . a superb writer'
SYDNEY MORNING HERALD, Books of the Year
'A masterclass'
TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
'McFarlane is a master at just about everything: dialogue, setting, comic timing'
LOS ANGELES TIMES
In 1998, an apparently ordinary Australian man is arrested and charged for a series of brutal murders. The news shocks the nation, bringing both horror and resolution to the victims' families, but its impact travels even further: into the past, as the murders rewrite personal histories, and into the future, as true crime podcasts and biopics tell the story of the crimes.
From the killer's childhood town to Texas, Rome and beyond, from the mid-twentieth century to the near-future, Highway Thirteen asks how do communities make sense of such atrocities? How does the mourning of families sit alongside the public fascination with terrible crimes? And can we tell true crime stories without centring the killers?