Satisfaction tasted braised on Max’s tongue, a flash of high heat followed by the slow, tenderizing fervor of red wine. Watching Peter react (or rather, fight his innate reactions, which was much more interesting), Max allowed himself a short mental exercise. What would he serve, if this meeting had been a meal instead? Lamb braised with Châteauneuf-Pape and prunes over couscous, perhaps? True lamb, yes, for the promise of unfulfilled wrath, and prunes for the sweet reward of patience. Light in symbolism rather than dripping with it, but one had to take into consideration that sometimes the simplest dishes were the most harmonious. And what was the purpose of sharing a meal if not to create harmony among equals?
No, no – that was too much, even for Max. A lie he’d have no trouble feeding others but could not survive past its conception within himself. The objectives of Max’s dinner parties were hardly so benevolent. He abandoned the thought experiment, knowing that this imagined meal was a wish far removed from reality and thus, for the time being, irrelevant. Much more pertinent was what had primed a taste of fantasy on his palate.
Peter was asking the exact question Max wanted him to ask.
Steering conversations in certain directions was a deeply ingrained game in Max. His motives for it were various, though lately with so few new players in his life, the game had become somewhat rote. The prospect of someone new to influence was always an exciting one for Hannibal, and now just as much for Max, Hannibal in every way but the exterior. It remained to be seen whether this conversation would require his guidance, but he thought not. Peter was already separating the wheat from the chaff, seeking answers that would provide the most sustenance after being given very little to work with from Max. Good. Another point in his favor.
As for the answer itself, the truth was out of the question, of course. Max would hold his suspicions about Peter close until the very moment Peter confessed that information of his own volition. But, perhaps, a path could be laid before him, starting now. A path paved with the finest material Max had at his disposal, though as ever there was no predicting the course Peter would choose to take once upon it. But that was half the fun, wasn’t it? Wind him up and watch him go.
“I wouldn’t say you’re shooting yourself in the foot. More… getting ahead of yourself.”
Max let the words hang for a moment before pressing on. His tone never changed, amiability tightly controlled despite the more overt challenge. This was provocation with a purpose.
“Your sources are correct.” Max nodded again, making a mental note to find them. “I don’t grant interviews about my wife’s case. Frankly, I’m disinclined to grant yours. But I’m familiar with your work, Mr. Graves, and I have to admit, I was curious. You’re not a writer I would have expected to count among the litany of leeches hoping to make an easy buck out of a case that is both the greatest personal tragedy of my lifetime and the worst professional failure of my career.” He paused, tongue touching his teeth. “I suppose you’re here because I wanted to prove myself wrong.”