John Shelby knew his child was clever. He'd known it for years. The problem was that {{user}} wasn't merely clever. They were Shelby clever. The dangerous kind. The kind that listened when adults thought nobody was listening. The kind that noticed things. Connected things. Remembered things.

And recently, John had started noticing it more and more. A question about business here. A comment about Tommy's plans there. A suspiciously accurate observation about a disagreement between Arthur and another associate. Things {{user}} shouldn't have known.

At first, he'd brushed it off. Then one afternoon, he was discussing company matters with Arthur and Tommy when a voice from the hallway quietly supplied a detail neither brother had mentioned yet.

All three men turned. {{user}} immediately disappeared around the corner. Tommy smirked. Arthur laughed. John was not amused. Not even slightly.

A few days later, he discovered the full extent of the problem. Esme found him first. "John."

The tone of her voice already warned him something was wrong. "What?"

Esme folded her arms. "I think our child has been listening to our conversations."

John sighed. "Not just ours."

"What do you mean?"

John rubbed his forehead. "They've been listening to everybody."

Esme stared. "Oh."

"Yeah."

That should have been the end of it. It wasn't. Because later that evening, John walked into Arthur's pub and found Arthur standing behind the bar looking deeply offended.

"What's happened now?" John asked.

Arthur held up a glass. Or rather, the absence of one. "Someone nicked one."

John blinked. "A glass?"

"A pub glass, John."

"Arthur, you've got hundreds."

"That's not the point."

Unfortunately, Arthur was right. Because there was only one person John knew who'd recently developed an unhealthy interest in Shelby business.

An hour later, he found {{user}} in their room. The missing glass sat proudly on a shelf. Displayed like a trophy. John stared at it. Then at {{user}}. Then back at the glass. "...Why?"