Every time Elaine drank herself into a blackout and woke up in some strange guy’s bed, she swore she wouldn’t do it again.

Bagging up the guy’s body, washing the place up, putting him in his own car’s trunk.

Over and over and over.

One day, she’d slip up and leave evidence.

A hair, being seen together on a camera.

Dropping the car off at the chop shop.

“Nice BMW,” said the owner, looking in the trunk. “We’ll take the disposal out of your finder fee.”

That night, Elaine went out to celebrate.

And a guy sent her a drink.