That was a polite way to explain what she had been doing. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise.” God knew she needed to talk to someone. “But first tell me what else you found.” Not that it was going to matter if she had screwed all the samples up. Which infuriated her. She didn’t like to mess up, couldn’t explain how she could have done that.

“That patent print you sent me? I entered it in AFIS and got a list of four possible matches. Patricia ran through them last night for me, which means you owe her big time for doing that on a Saturday night, but anyway, she made a conclusive match. Twelve points.”

Sara narrowed her eyes at Jocelyn. “Wait a minute. I only sent you one fingerprint scan. How the hell could that match prints in AFIS?”

“Because it’s the same person.” Jocelyn looked at her blankly. “What do you mean? Why did you send it if you weren’t looking for a match?”

What she meant was that the print she’d sent Jocelyn had been the bloody fingerprint on the sketch of Anne Donovan, left there in 1849. Almost a hundred and sixty years earlier. She’d sent it merely to ask Jocelyn if she thought there was any possibility of extracting DNA from the bloody fingerprint on the original sketch, but she’d never actually gotten around to asking that of Jocelyn, so her friend had obviously assumed she wanted to search for a match. Which hadn’t occurred to her as even a possibility because of its age. “It’s an old print. There’s no way there should have been a match.”

“How old?”

“It was from 1849.” A chill went up Sara’s spine. Something was very wrong, only she had no idea what it was.

“What? That’s impossible. Patricia doesn’t mess up like that. She’s an expert fingerprint tech and she’s been doing this for fifteen years. She found twelve fucking points of comp, Sara.”

“That’s why it doesn’t make any sense!” Sara rubbed her temples. Nothing made sense. “Who did the match come up as? Just some random petty criminal?”

“No. It’s a woman who was arrested in Louisiana in 2003 for running a prostitution ring. Her name is Marguerite Charles. Does that ring any bells?”

It did. Sara sat straight up. That’s what the woman outside Rafe’s had said her name was. Marguerite. But she hadn’t told her a last name, so why did the whole name Marguerite Charles sound familiar?

“I don’t know . . . maybe. I went over to Rafe’s before I came here and some woman was there getting his mail. He had obviously moved out of his condo. This woman said she was his girlfriend . . . and that her name was Marguerite.” She had also mentioned Gabriel. Say hi to Gabriel.