Because when Chloe was frightened, she sobbed, loudly and without restraint.

And when she did not understand something, she asked questions, endless streams of them, until the world made sense again.

That night, she was doing neither.

She was not crying.

She was not asking.

She was sitting utterly still beside her father’s casket, her small face composed and intent, and she was, I slowly realized, watching.

Studying.

Observing him with a concentrated attention that had nothing of denial in it and everything of investigation.