The afternoon drizzle had turned the narrow asphalt alleys behind Boston Symphony Hall into slick, reflecting ribbons of black oil and rain. At one-fifteen, the service exits along St. Stephen Street were deserted, sheltered from the bustling traffic of Huntington Avenue by high brick parapets and rusted industrial dumpsters. Maya walked briskly through the mist, her trench coat pulled tight around her throat, the heavy strap of her carbon-fiber Guarneri…
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