What do you think?
Rate this book
Las Cosas Más Delicadas
Su arte te dejará sin aliento.
En las sombras del Nueva York de los años 50, una mente brillante se tambalea al borde de la locura. Las esculturas de Edgar Maguire están arrasando en el mundo del arte, pero detrás de cada obra maestra se esconde un horrible secreto.
Cuando Fiona, el objeto de la obsesión de toda la vida de Edgar, vuelve a entrar en su vida, se enciende una pasión que difumina los límites entre la creación y la destrucción. A medida que su arte se convierte en algo aterradoramente bello, un rastro de cadáveres comienza a aparecer por toda la ciudad.
El detective George Snyder se acerca, pero ¿podrá desentrañar la conexión entre los asesinatos y la estrella emergente de Edgar antes de que sea demasiado tarde?
En las sombras del Nueva York de los años 50, una mente brillante se tambalea al borde de la locura. Las esculturas de Edgar Maguire están arrasando en el mundo del arte, pero detrás de cada obra maestra se esconde un horrible secreto.
Cuando Fiona, el objeto de la obsesión de toda la vida de Edgar, vuelve a entrar en su vida, se enciende una pasión que difumina los límites entre la creación y la destrucción. A medida que su arte se convierte en algo aterradoramente bello, un rastro de cadáveres comienza a aparecer por toda la ciudad.
El detective George Snyder se acerca, pero ¿podrá desentrañar la conexión entre los asesinatos y la estrella emergente de Edgar antes de que sea demasiado tarde?
366 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 30, 2025
1 person is currently reading
16 people want to read
About the author
J.D. Barker
58 books6,986 followersJ.D. Barker is the New York Times and international best-selling author of numerous novels, including DRACUL and the wildly popular 4MK series. He is currently collaborating with James Patterson. His books have been translated into two dozen languages, sold in more than 150 countries, and optioned for both film and television. Barker resides in coastal New Hampshire with his wife, Dayna, and their daughter, Ember.
A note from J.D.
As a child I was always told the dark could not hurt me, that the shadows creeping in the corners of my room were nothing more than just that, shadows. The sounds nothing more than the settling of our old home, creaking as it found comfort in the earth only to move again when it became restless, if ever so slightly. I would never sleep without closing the closet door, oh no; the door had to be shut tight. The darkness lurking inside needed to be held at bay, the whispers silenced. Rest would only come after I checked under the bed at least twice and quickly wrapped myself in the safety of the sheets (which no monster could penetrate), pulling them tight over my head.
I would never go down to the basement.
Never.
I had seen enough movies to know better, I had read enough stories to know what happens to little boys who wandered off into dark, dismal places alone. And there were stories, so many stories.
Reading was my sanctuary, a place where I could disappear for hours at a time, lost in the pages of a good book. It didn’t take long before I felt the urge to create my own.
I first began to write as a child, spinning tales of ghosts and gremlins, mystical places and people. For most of us, that’s where it begins—as children we have such wonderful imaginations, some of us have simply found it hard to grow up. I’ve spent countless hours trying to explain to friends and family why I enjoy it, why I would rather lock myself in a quiet little room and put pen to paper for hours at a time than throw around a baseball or simply watch television. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I want to do just that, sometimes I wish for it, but even then the need to write is always there in the back of my mind, the characters are impatiently tapping their feet, waiting their turn, wanting to be heard. I wake in the middle of the night and reach for the pad beside my bed, sometimes scrawling page after page of their words, their lives. Then they’re quiet, if only for a little while. To stop would mean madness, or even worse—the calm, numbing sanity I see in others as they slip through the day without purpose. They don’t know what it’s like, they don’t understand. Something as simple as a pencil can open the door to a new world, can create life or experience death. Writing can take you to places you’ve never been, introduce you to people you’ve never met, take you back to when you first saw those shadows in your room, when you first heard the sounds mumbling ever so softly from your closet, and it can show you what uttered them. It can scare the hell out of you, and that’s when you know it’s good.
jd
A note from J.D.
As a child I was always told the dark could not hurt me, that the shadows creeping in the corners of my room were nothing more than just that, shadows. The sounds nothing more than the settling of our old home, creaking as it found comfort in the earth only to move again when it became restless, if ever so slightly. I would never sleep without closing the closet door, oh no; the door had to be shut tight. The darkness lurking inside needed to be held at bay, the whispers silenced. Rest would only come after I checked under the bed at least twice and quickly wrapped myself in the safety of the sheets (which no monster could penetrate), pulling them tight over my head.
I would never go down to the basement.
Never.
I had seen enough movies to know better, I had read enough stories to know what happens to little boys who wandered off into dark, dismal places alone. And there were stories, so many stories.
Reading was my sanctuary, a place where I could disappear for hours at a time, lost in the pages of a good book. It didn’t take long before I felt the urge to create my own.
I first began to write as a child, spinning tales of ghosts and gremlins, mystical places and people. For most of us, that’s where it begins—as children we have such wonderful imaginations, some of us have simply found it hard to grow up. I’ve spent countless hours trying to explain to friends and family why I enjoy it, why I would rather lock myself in a quiet little room and put pen to paper for hours at a time than throw around a baseball or simply watch television. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I want to do just that, sometimes I wish for it, but even then the need to write is always there in the back of my mind, the characters are impatiently tapping their feet, waiting their turn, wanting to be heard. I wake in the middle of the night and reach for the pad beside my bed, sometimes scrawling page after page of their words, their lives. Then they’re quiet, if only for a little while. To stop would mean madness, or even worse—the calm, numbing sanity I see in others as they slip through the day without purpose. They don’t know what it’s like, they don’t understand. Something as simple as a pencil can open the door to a new world, can create life or experience death. Writing can take you to places you’ve never been, introduce you to people you’ve never met, take you back to when you first saw those shadows in your room, when you first heard the sounds mumbling ever so softly from your closet, and it can show you what uttered them. It can scare the hell out of you, and that’s when you know it’s good.
jd
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
September 10, 2025
Infumable. La historia no me ha enganchado, se me ha hecho pesada y los personajes sin carisma.
December 24, 2025
En las sombras del Nueva York de los años 50, una mente brillante se tambalea al borde de la locura.
Las esculturas de Edgar Maguire están arrasando en el mundo del arte, pero detrás de cada obra maestra se esconde un horrible secreto.
Cuando Fiona, el objeto de la obsesión de toda la vida de Edgar, vuelve a entrar en su vida, se enciende una pasión que difumina los límites entre la creación y la destrucción. A medida que su arte se convierte en algo aterradoramente bello, un rastro de cadáveres comienza a aparecer por toda la ciudad.
El detective George Snyder se acerca, pero ¿podrá desentrañar la conexión entre los asesinatos y la estrella emergente de Edgar antes de que sea demasiado tarde?
No sé que decir... Creo que es el libro que menos me ha gustado de este autor. Un revoltijo de personajes, cada uno más pertubador que otro, aunque la trama me había gustado al principio, pero al irse desarrollando ha ido cayendo en picado, el final muy desastroso o yo no lo he entendido nada vaya.
Lo único que me gustaría resaltar es la importancia de la salud mental, como influye nuestro entorno al desarrollo de la identidad, la seguridad en uno mismo y una mente sana.
Las esculturas de Edgar Maguire están arrasando en el mundo del arte, pero detrás de cada obra maestra se esconde un horrible secreto.
Cuando Fiona, el objeto de la obsesión de toda la vida de Edgar, vuelve a entrar en su vida, se enciende una pasión que difumina los límites entre la creación y la destrucción. A medida que su arte se convierte en algo aterradoramente bello, un rastro de cadáveres comienza a aparecer por toda la ciudad.
El detective George Snyder se acerca, pero ¿podrá desentrañar la conexión entre los asesinatos y la estrella emergente de Edgar antes de que sea demasiado tarde?
No sé que decir... Creo que es el libro que menos me ha gustado de este autor. Un revoltijo de personajes, cada uno más pertubador que otro, aunque la trama me había gustado al principio, pero al irse desarrollando ha ido cayendo en picado, el final muy desastroso o yo no lo he entendido nada vaya.
Lo único que me gustaría resaltar es la importancia de la salud mental, como influye nuestro entorno al desarrollo de la identidad, la seguridad en uno mismo y una mente sana.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews