Vivian was crying. She thrust a sheet of paper at the two men, proof that she and her husband had already surrendered to the police. Then she begged for her life.
The last word Adrian Peregrino said was love. He turned his head to look at his daughter just before the bullet slammed into his temple.
Love, he said.
Love-love was awake when the killers kicked down the door. Stand up, the men in masks told her father. When Adrian died, the three-year-old son asleep on his chest woke screaming, spattered with blood.
Love-love’s mother Vivian was crying. She thrust a sheet of paper at the two men, proof that she and her husband had already surrendered to the police. Then she begged for her life.
One of the gunmen turned to go. He said they could come back and kill Vivian if she talked.
“Leave the woman,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to,” said the second man.
He raised his gun. “We are Duterte.”
Vivian died on her knees. Love-love screamed. Caught her mother in her arms. Fuck you, fuck you, she screamed, you killed my mother.
The man with the gun aimed the muzzle at Love-Love’s face.
Shut up, he said, or we’ll kill you too.